Shirley

by Burgess, Muriel

  Ben Johnson was a West Indian who had started his ballet company in 1951. Although run on a shoestring, the company was hardworking and artistic, Ben having – as he openly acknowledged – drawn much inspiration from two great inventive dancer-choreographers, Katherine Dunham and Robert Helpmann. The Australian Helpmann, a leading dancer with the Royal Ballet, had also famously danced in the films The Red Shoes and Tales of Hoffman; the American Dunham had not only opened new vistas for dance as an art form, but had forced open the doors that had been closed to black talent.

  Shirley and the five dancers were, of course, old colleagues, having worked together in both Memories of Jolson and Hot from Harlem. But things were a little different now. Shirley was no longer a chorus girl with a solo spot in a downmarket revue, but the featured singer in the Ben Johnson Ballet, and because Shirley passionately loved dancing, Ben had decided to give her a dancing spot in the show, partnered by him. Shirley was delighted. She admired and respected the dancers, considering them true artists, and was awed by Louise’s dedication. That didn’t alter the fact that, while Louise’s idea of heaven was the daily dance rehearsals called by Ben, Shirley considered them a pain in the neck.

  She did, however, discover the joy and freedom that came from dancing the Ben Johnson way. In the show, she and Ben glided nightly round the stage to ‘By the Light of the Silvery Moon’, and she never tired of it. She was quite aware that Ben had taught her the simplest of steps so that he could always cover if she made a mistake, and that the others knew this. They felt that ‘dancers do the dancing’, but she didn’t mind. This was how she had imagined show business would be, a chance to improve herself and to learn new skills. It was in watching and working with the ballet, that Shirley originated the sinuous movements of her solo stage performances later on.

  Michael Sullivan arrived in Jersey, having decided to slip in to the first matinee, unannounced and unexpected. Shirley, who had few clothes, agreed to wear on stage her bridesmaid frock from one of her sisters’ weddings. With its acid-green satin bodice and bouffant net skirt, the dress was a disaster, unappealing and doing less than nothing for its wearer’s slim and graceful body – a body which, as several designers would learn, was an absolute dream to clothe.

  When she made her first entrance that afternoon, Sullivan inwardly groaned. Visually, everything about this girl standing under the stage lights, was worse than he could ever have expected. It wasn’t only the hideous dress, but she clearly had no idea about stage make-up. Her eyes had disappeared into her head, emphasising the ill-chosen gash of bright orange lipstick she wore. Worst of all, she had no stagecraft.

  Standing alone and diffident in front of the microphone, Shirley appeared so raw and untrained, her gestures so stiff and contrived, that it hurt him to watch. Her exit, in his view, was nothing short of a calamity. She marched off the stage without even a smile to the audience, as though she were leaving the show forever. The voice, which had so overcome him in the London rehearsal room, was fine, but brought only lukewarm applause. His spirits sank.

  The ballet numbers were good and the girls, in their flimsy, pretty gauze costumes, looked delightful. How, wondered Sullivan, could they have allowed Shirley to wear that terrible green dress? What he didn’t yet know, was that Shirley had very much a mind of her own and since the Johnsons, whose costumes were run up by Pam on her sewing machine at home, had nothing to offer her from their wardrobe, there wasn’t much they could do about her choice.

  When, later in the programme, Shirley came on with Ben for their dance number, she was wearing one of Pam’s flimsy creations. She looked very good and very professional as Ben guided her through the relaxed and intimate routine. Suddenly, the men in the audience sat up and took notice. Now that Shirley was properly on show, her sex appeal was obvious.

  The applause for the dance number was generous and gave Shirley a boost. From then on, it was as though an ember had been reignited, and with each successive song, that unique voice grew in excitement, and so did the audience. Whatever she sang – ‘Smile’, ‘Ebb Tide’, ‘The Sunny Side of the Street’ – she was a sensation, and the applause was rapturous.

  But Michael Sullivan was now suffering from doubt and conflict. Yes, the audience had loved Shirley, who had come through wonderfully for the Monday matinee crowd, retired pensioners who knew what they liked. But she could just as easily have failed to captivate them. She was so clearly untrained, with little idea of how to present or pace herself. The talent was there, waiting to be exploited, the voice was extraordinary, but he knew that she would be laughed off the stage in a top spot at a number one venue.

  It was obvious that Shirley Bassey was no ordinary singer but, wondered Sullivan, had he jumped the gun? Was he really capable of taking on a beginner and teaching her everything? And did she want to learn? He was suddenly beset with worries about the vastness of the undertaking. Not only would he have to pay her a salary and teach her the tricks of her trade, but he’d have to find her somewhere to live, look after her, nursemaid her. He knew that stars didn’t come ready gift-wrapped, but there were so many problems, not least the fact that he hated taking care of other people.

  He decided to defer any decision until after the evening performance, to which he took his friend Sydney James, a professional booker who lived in Jersey, and whose opinion he valued.

  Sullivan took a cold, hard, objective look at the second show. Yes, the green dress would have to go, but his wife, Juhni, a professional costume designer who had just dressed a show at the London Palladium, would know exactly how to dress Shirley to advantage. And the quality of that wondrous voice, which was what it was all about, was not in doubt. That evening, he began to realise that Shirley had several advantages, not least that she was young and fresh and every man in the auditorium fell in love with her. Each time she came on that evening, it was an occasion. She’d got that certain elusive and indefinable something given to few – star quality.

  His indecision was over. By the time he’d finished with Shirley Bassey, she’d be stunning. The talent was all there, just waiting to be developed and unleashed on an unsuspecting world. It wouldn’t, he realised, be a pushover; this girl was not going to be easy to control and he’d sensed the wariness, even suspicion, behind those liquid dark eyes of hers. No matter. His gut feeling told him that he was on to a winner.

  Sydney James didn’t share his friend’s conviction. ‘This is Jersey in the winter, they applaud anything,’ he told him. ‘I can’t really be sure about this girl of yours. Personally, I’d be inclined to turn her down.’ Sullivan was undeterred, his mind was made up.

  Later that night, after he and the company had shared a drink or two, he sat down alone with Shirley in his hotel to discuss the serious business of her future. First, he needed to make sure that she had no commitment to any other agent. Shirley told him that Georgie Wood in Cardiff had got her and the Bay Girls into the first show she had done, but reassured him that she was entirely free. He wasn’t entirely convinced, he knew how careless these girls could be about contracts, and made a mental note to check out the Georgie Wood situation.

  He then suggested that she might like to undertake a tour with a variety show. The very word ‘tour’ was enough to draw an emphatic no from Shirley, who had so hated being on the road, but Michael pressed on. There would be no such tour until she’d had at least three months of training, he told her.

  ‘What training?’ demanded Shirley, to whom it sounded far too much like school to appeal to her.

  Carefully, he explained to her that she had much to learn about stagecraft and technique, without which her ambitions would never be realised, and then he took the plunge. ‘I shall find you a hotel. I shall pay you a salary. I shall hire a rehearsal room and a pianist who’ll teach you about music. Only when you’re ready will we think about a variety tour. And then I shall pay all your expenses.’

  Shirley was confused, overwhelmed and suspicious. This was not at all what she’d had in
mind when the agent had offered to take her on. Her idea of stardom came from Hollywood movies and True Romance magazines. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why do I need all this, and why do you want to do all this for me?’

  ‘Because I think you’ve got talent. Tomorrow I’m going to Guernsey to meet someone. I’m going to tell him you need a hundred pounds for dresses.’

  ‘A hundred pounds! For me?’ Suddenly she looked very vulnerable, young and unsure.

  ‘If you work hard, Shirley, I promise I can make you a star.’

  It had all been too much for the feisty but naïve eighteen-year-old who, only a matter of weeks before, had abandoned all thoughts of show business to sling hash in Cardiff by day, and spend her evenings at home in Splott with her mother and her own adored baby. Suddenly, she burst into tears. Touched by this Michael Sullivan put his arm around her and comforted her, as she wept on his shoulder.

  As Michael wiped away her tears, she suddenly smiled at him. Not stopping to give the matter any thought, he obeyed his instincts and led her, unresisting, up to his hotel room. Years later, looking back on this time, he said, ‘That was the first and last time I made love to Shirley.’ After that, he decided to keep sex right out of their relationship, but he also said later that that was perhaps his biggest mistake, that he should perhaps have bound Shirley to him completely with a strong sexual relationship. This rather curious reasoning from a man who was married at the time, was said in the sad aftermath of his professional break from the star he had created.

  In the event, until the parting of the ways came, Shirley acquiesced to most of Michael’s demands. Although she could be as strong-willed as he, she knew she needed the benefit of his experience and expertise to advance her own quest for stardom. However, she certainly didn’t seem interested in any other aspect of the man, and most people who knew them disagree that a sexual relationship would have achieved anything. Shirley, under her defiant exterior, was a sensitive girl who needed more tenderness and compassion than Sullivan would ever have been capable of giving.

  In 1955, British show business was dominated by men like Michael Sullivan, hard men who made all the decisions. Sylvia Beresford Clarke, Berry’s wife and one of the bystanders to the Bassey-Sullivan working partnership, has said, ‘I shall never know how Shirley survived those years. How she came through it all.’

  That night in Jersey, for better or worse, the die was cast. Shirley vacated her new manager’s bed for her own. When she got back to her hotel, she demanded of her room-mate, Louise Benjamin, ‘Where’s my Wagon Wheel? Did you leave one for me?’ One of Shirley’s passions was for biscuits, and she often slept with a small packet under her pillow in case she felt hungry during the night.

  Louise was eager to know what had transpired with Sullivan, and could hardly believe the news that he was going to provide a hundred pounds for dresses. To the girls from Tiger Bay, this was a small fortune. Louise remembered when Shirley didn’t have a pair of knickers to her name, and her own aunt, Iris Freeman’s mother whom Shirley called ‘Auntie Bella’, had had to lend the girl knickers so she could go sliding down the slag heaps with Iris.

  The memory led on to reminiscences about their childhood in Tiger Bay and Louise pondered on the difficulties for children of mixed-race parentage. As a coloured girl from Tiger Bay, she had found life in London very difficult at first. London wasn’t yet geared to multi-racialism, and she sometimes found herself wondering just exactly who she was. Years later, Louise said, ‘The day I accepted that I was black everything fell into place and my life became easier.’

  Shirley Bassey never seemed to have the problem. She told a journalist in an interview that, ‘My mother was white so I never thought I was anything else.’

  That night in Jersey, however, she had other things on her mind. Mr Sullivan had said, ‘I promise I can make you a star.’ For the first time in her young life she believed that here was a man who had spoken the truth.

  5

  A STAR IS BORN

  BEFORE MICHAEL SULLIVAN left Jersey for Guernsey and his meeting with his partner, Berry, he gave Shirley his Shaftesbury Avenue office telephone number and told her to ring him as soon as the Ballet arrived back in London. Unfortunately, he didn’t tell her where he lived – round the corner from his office at the Mapleton Hotel – which led to a big mix-up when the unexpected happened.

  Sullivan had caught influenza and instead of being at his office when Shirley arrived back from Jersey, he lay shivering in bed at the hotel. Shirley was staying at Harold Wood with Pam and Ben, from where she rang his empty office constantly. Meanwhile, Juhni, Sullivan’s wife, was waiting in vain outside the office looking for a dark girl – answering her husband’s description of Shirley. At last, in desperation, Sullivan telephoned Ben Johnson at the rehearsal rooms and asked him to send Shirley round to the Mapleton.

  An hour later Juhni opened the door to Shirley, who looked dazzling in a vivid orange dress under a silvery see-thru plastic mac. She was very unsure of herself in this unfamiliar situation of coming to meet a man who was ill in bed – and a hotel bed at that. She had never met anybody who actually lived in a hotel.

  She sat nervously on the edge of a chair, almost as if to ensure a quick getaway from this man who lay in bed coughing and sneezing, and who didn’t at all resemble the polished ball of fire who had promised her one hundred pounds for her costumes.

  Sullivan cleared his throat and told Shirley he had booked her a room at Olivelli’s, a nearby Italian restaurant with accommodation above which was rented out to theatricals. He didn’t tell her that he had asked Papa Olivelli, the owner, to keep an eye on her, and if he was ever concerned about her, to get in touch with him.

  ‘You’ll have breakfast there, if you want, and dinner at night. It’s inexpensive,’ Juhni Sullivan told the clearly apprehensive girl.

  ‘How long do I have to stay there?’ asked Shirley warily.

  ‘At least three months,’ Sullivan replied.

  ‘So long!’ Shirley looked worried. ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘Work hard,’ said Sullivan shortly. ‘Every afternoon you’ll be in a rehearsal room with a pianist. In the evening I’ll teach you the things you have to know. You’ve got a lot to learn, and not just about singing. You’ve got to learn voice production, and we’ve got to get rid of that accent.’

  ‘What accent?’ asked Shirley.

  Juhni interrupted. She could see the girl was getting agitated. ‘You’ll enjoy it. Every good performer has to go through this.’

  ‘All right,’ said Shirley, getting up. ‘All right.’

  ‘Sit down,’ ordered Sullivan. ‘Now we come to the important part. The contract. You’re still a minor so your mother has to sign for you. I’m going to read it through to you carefully, clause by clause, until you understand it. Then you’ll go home to Cardiff and let your mother read it. Then she’ll sign it and you’ll come back.’

  ‘How long can I stay in Cardiff?’ Shirley asked desperately.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Juhni. ‘We’ll talk about it when I give you the return fare.’

  ‘And ten pounds salary,’ added Sullivan. You’ll see in the contract that you get a salary of ten pounds a week.’

  When Sullivan had finished explaining the contract, he was too hoarse to continue the meeting and Juhni took Shirley to the lift. She came back and, with some misgiving, asked her husband whether he genuinely believed he could turn this girl into a star.

  Michael Sullivan had grown up in the era of the movie heroes and heroines of the 1930s and ’40s, and had wanted to be a film director. Instead, he became an office boy to a man who booked variety acts, and, at weekends, he went down to Southend-on-Sea to help a man who owned a freak show. Sullivan was fifteen, he wore a straw boater and carried a cane, and earned a pound every Saturday.

  The owner of the show helped him to train his voice. ‘Now make sure they can hear you all over the fairground,’ he instructed him. ‘You’ve got to fill this tent a
t sixpence a go to see the five-legged sheep.’ The young Michael succeeded in filling the tent, and although the sheep’s fifth leg was only glued on, he made the customers laugh. But this was something different. Juhni was right, how the hell was he going to turn an eighteen-year-old girl from nowhere into a star?

  Hundreds of kids went to RADA and other drama schools every year and how many of them became big stars? A mere handful. Okay, the raw material he had was good, he could polish the talent, but what the hell did he do finally with a beautifully polished singing bird?

  His anxiety was not helped by recalling Joe Collins’ words to him. He’d been to see him when he got back from Jersey because Joe had been the management that sent Shirley’s last show, Hot from Harlem, on the road. To his horror, Collins had said, ‘Don’t touch that girl with a barge pole.’

  Joe Collins could be a difficult man, but he knew his stuff, and he made money. ‘Shirley Bassey walked out of my show,’ Joe told him. ‘Left us flat without a girl singer. Don’t touch her, she’ll let you down.’

  Sullivan began to feel ill again. What had he done? Signed up a girl for God knows how long at ten pounds a week. He was broke, and even if she didn’t walk out and didn’t let him down, he wasn’t sure what was he going to do with her. He needed lessons himself. He’d have to find out how these men who dealt with star acts succeeded. He needed to know their secret.

  Shirley returned from Cardiff with the contract duly signed by her mother. Sitting in an imitation zebra skin chair in Sullivan’s rather opulent office she looked strangely subdued. She had been unnerved by her longed-for visit home to Splott. In a few short weeks she had become ‘Auntie Shirley’ to her own child, while her sister Iris, as she had feared, had taken on the role of Sharon’s mother. ‘I show her your picture every day,’ said Iris, ‘don’t worry.’