Shirley

by Burgess, Muriel

  Peter poured his heart out to whoever would listen. He told his audience that he was devastated. ‘She only came out here to tell me that it is all off,’ he wept. ‘She’s gone back to her husband.’ He sank into bouts of drunken self-pity and blamed everyone but himself. At a dinner with the company he said that his affair with Shirley was the reason for the box-office disaster of his last film in South Africa and the Southern States of America ‘Just because I fell in love with a coloured girl,’ he moaned.

  Most of the company found his attitude unbearable. ‘You’re just a reverse racist, Peter,’ someone said. ‘With you black’s good, white’s bad. Shirley isn’t either, she’s Welsh.’

  Peter Finch finally decided that he and Shirley were still the best of soul mates. In fact he hoped that one day she would come back to him. He even thought that this would happen when he made his next film in America. He knew that Shirley’s yearly trip to Australia would take place after the 1965 New Year, and after that she would be going to Las Vegas and Hollywood.

  After the disaster of Judith, Finch was slated to make The Flight of the Phoenix on location in Yuma, Arizona, a serious story of a plane crash in the Libyan desert with a cast that included James Stewart and Richard Attenborough. After completing work in the Arizona desert the film would be finished in the Hollywood studios, and this was how Peter saw his chance of meeting up with Shirley again.

  Peter and Shirley were, indeed, still friends, interested in each other’s professional lives. He telephoned her before she left on tour. Would she come and see him in Hollywood when she started the Hollywood part of her tour? Taken by surprise, Shirley laughed and said maybe, but by the time she reached America plans had changed and she wired him in Yuma to say no.

  A publicity woman working with the film company in Yuma was a close friend of Peter’s and related how, when he received the wire, he wept and drank for two days. Finally he said to her, ‘Shirley’s a fabulous person and I’m mad about her but she’s not really the sort of person I could marry. She’s too ambitious.’

  The two divorce cases were down to be heard in February 1965. Yolande Finch v Peter Finch, and Kenneth Hume v Shirley Hume. Kenneth Hume’s evidence against Shirley was sensational. He alleged that Samantha, the little girl who was just over one year old, was not his child. She was the child of one of two co-respondents with whom his wife had committed adultery. One was Peter Finch, the other was an Irishman called John McAuliffe. He demanded that these two men have blood tests to decide who was the father. He had proved from his own blood test that he was not.

  What he hoped to gain from this revelation is questionable. It might have been the trick he kept up his sleeve as a last desperate gesture, but Shirley had moved on.

  Peter Finch spent the day after his divorce at Tickerage, the country home of Vivien Leigh. She was now divorced from Laurence Olivier and living with Jack Merivale. Vivien and Peter had retained a very high regard for each other.

  There always remained a feeling of what might have been for Shirley and Peter. They met by chance in Switzerland three years later. Peter was with a girl called Aretha, from Jamaica. A few days later, Finchy telephoned her, ‘I can’t stand it any more. I’m going back to Jamaica.’ Shirley said, ‘It was the last I ever saw of him.’

  Peter Finch’s career didn’t really take off in a big way again until he made Network, with William Holden and Faye Dunaway, for which he won a posthumous Oscar. He had been living in Jamaica and had finally married Aretha. They moved to Hollywood, where Peter Finch died aged fifty-eight in 1977. He had walked down to the Beverly Hills Hotel for a meeting with a producer when he collapsed with a fatal heart attack in the hotel lobby.

  While the divorces were going through Shirley embarked on her annual Australian–American tour, with Kenny Clayton as her musical director and Vic West as her tour manager. Kenneth Hume said he would call in to see them in Las Vegas when they began the American leg of the tour.

  Kenneth Hume was fully in charge of Shirley’s career again. Their marriage was legally over but few who worked with them saw any difference. Bernard Hall, who knew them both well, said that Shirley’s conversations with Kenneth were never typical of that of husband and wife, but then they never talked like manager and star either. There was still an intimacy between them, an emotion based on familiarity, affection and forgiveness.

  Shirley, Kenny and Vic got along well and enjoyed themselves together. The stopover on their way to Sydney was Singapore. They stayed at the Goodwood Park Hotel where the owner, Freddie Euwe, introduced them to Matt Monro, the well-known English singer who was having a stopover after finishing an Australian tour. ‘Two top-notch singers in my hotel,’ said Freddie, ‘I’d love to have you sing in my cabaret.’ Then he had a better idea. ‘Let’s have a concert. Let’s all make money!’

  Posters went up all over the town, and every ticket for the National Theatre was sold. Ex-pats still talk about the wonderful Shirley Bassey concert way back in 1965. No one knew how it happened but there she was, singing in Singapore.

  When the Australian tour was over the trio flew to Las Vegas where Shirley was always a big hit. To Kenny Clayton’s dismay Kenneth Hume turned up as promised. Kenny had disliked Hume since their first disastrous meeting when Hume had behaved so badly. In his view, ‘Kenneth Hume was a gambler. Not the roulette kind, more the fruit machine type. I knew he’d be more at home betting on the dogs or playing cards in Soho.’ His big losses on cards were gossiped about in Denmark Street, and it was rumoured that while Shirley was singing her butt off all over the world, a lot of her money was being paid out in gambling debts to the Soho Mafia.

  Kenny had his own feelings about the strange marital relationship between Shirley and Kenneth Hume. He blamed it on the common mistake women stars make when they marry a man in show business. They think the man will put them and their career first, but they don’t. ‘And Shirley’s well out of that one too,’ said Kenny, when she broke up with Peter Finch.

  Long experience with female performers had made Kenny wise. It was never wise to mix business with pleasure. It was not that Shirley encouraged familiarity, but in Las Vegas Kenny was worried about the effect Kenneth Hume was having on her. ‘She changed when he came,’ Kenny recalled. ‘She’d been a pussycat all through the tour. It was strange, but now I could hear him in her voice. Hume had this nasty habit of shouting and yelling and sometimes I could hear his rage in her voice. As I, and nearly everyone else in London couldn’t stand him, I didn’t like what I heard.’

  From Las Vegas they went to Hollywood where Leslie Simmons at the office in London had rented a house for them in Coldwater Canyon. Shirley’s Scandinavian nanny, Dagmar, flew out with the two children who were going to have a great holiday with their mother. Fortunately, Kenneth Hume had little taste for lounging around swimming pools and soon left. The others, who’d been working hard in Vegas, were delighted to use this pool built out on a ledge over the canyon. Way down below they could see the yellow blanket of smog hanging over Los Angeles. ‘Shoot an arrow down there,’ Kenny told the children, ‘and it’ll get stuck in the smog.’ In Coldwater Canyon the gardens were lush and the air was clean. At night they’d hear the coyotes who came to drink at the swimming pool, and Shirley, said Kenny, ‘was just like she’d been at the beginning of the tour – lovely to be with.’

  They were in Hollywood to film two television shows. Kenneth Hume had sold an idea to NBC. ‘Get the two Basseys together and let them sing.’ He was talking about Count Basie, the famous American jazz musician and Shirley Bassey. NBC were willing to take it up if Count Basie was free. The other TV spot was a song with Dean Martin on his show.

  For a girl who usually stayed home and watched television, Shirley was enjoying going out and about in Hollywood. She even accepted an invitation to a barbecue and met Sidney Poitier, and then saw Leslie Bricusse and Tony Newley again. They had written the lyrics for Shirley’s big success, ‘Goldfinger’.

  Televising the Dean Ma
rtin Show went well. Martin had it in his contract that he did not have to come to rehearsals so Shirley rehearsed with a stand-in. When the big day came, Dean charmed Shirley. He put his arm around her and asked, ‘How do you like my socks?’ They were pink and thick and awful. She told him so. His wife had knitted them. Dean was such a clever and experienced performer and so expert that Shirley loved the show. She said afterwards, ‘He is the best.’

  The Count Basie telecast was very different. Count Basie was an American icon, venerated by all musicians. Kenny Clayton says, ‘At that time Shirley was not into jazz and swing. I doubt if she even realised what a great artist Count Basie was. He was one of the greatest exponents of jazz and swing in the world. To musicians his name was magic.’

  But Kenny Clayton had his reservations about the idea because the two artists were so very different. Count Basie was away on tour so NBC, who knew all about his status, arranged a lightning visit for him. He would be flown in by the afternoon, televise three numbers with Shirley, and fly off again immediately afterwards. They knew just how lucky they were to have him at all.

  All went well on the day. Shirley recorded four numbers in the morning and broke for lunch. Count Basie arrived as arranged, the director introduced everyone to ‘Bill Basie’, then said to Kenny, ‘Will you show Bill how the song goes?’ Kenny said he felt like the village tailor teaching Christian Dior how to sew. ‘This is how I usually play,’ he said nervously, and tried a bar or two. Bill Basie’s creased old face split into a grin. He sat down next to Kenny on the piano stool. ‘Enough of that shit,’ he laughed. ‘Let’s try it this way.’

  The atmosphere immediately became relaxed and everything went perfectly. Shirley’s song was fine and the crew applauded her. Every number went exactly as it should, with an added touch of elegance and class because Basie sat at the piano.

  When it was over Shirley went upstairs to change her costume for the last number that would close the telecast. While she was up there Bill Basie left to catch his plane and everyone, including the crew, suddenly vanished.

  ‘Union break,’ explained the assistant. ‘They’ll be back in twenty minutes.’ Kenny, who had worked in America before, remembered that these union breaks were absolutely sacrosanct to the crew. Woe betide anyone who tried to interfere with them. At that moment, Shirley came down the stairs from her dressing room and surveyed the empty studio. ‘Where the fuck is everyone?’ she demanded to know.

  The director’s assistant explained.

  ‘What!’ bellowed Shirley, ‘Twenty minutes! Am I expected to sit in this crummy studio for twenty minutes?’ Her voice rose with each word. Why hadn’t he the common courtesy to let her know? She’d hurried through a change of costume and make-up so as not to keep anyone waiting. ‘And what do they do?’

  Kenny blushed with shame. That was not Shirley talking. It was Kenneth Hume. He had heard him saying to Shirley, in front of him, ‘Every morning you go to the mirror and you say to yourself, I am a star and you bloody well make them treat you like a star.’ There was even a trace of his husky cockney in Shirley’s voice as she belted out the insults. ‘I’d rather be sitting down on my backside like you,’ Shirley blasted at the unfortunate assistant, ‘doing nothing.’

  The director’s assistant was on his feet. Would Miss Bassey like something to drink, some tea perhaps?

  Shirley told him what he could do with his tea. Kenny sat and listened to this echo of Hume’s voice ringing around the studio. Kenneth Hume, you evil queen, he thought. What had he done to her? If the crew could hear her they’d give her a bad time with her next number.

  Shirley, perhaps, realised this, and suddenly shut up and sat down. She had gone too far. The director’s assistant could pass on every insult to his superiors. Hume had told her not to let herself be treated like dirt but he hadn’t taught her how to extricate herself gracefully from a difficult position.

  But she did learn. In a television biography she made in Monte Carlo in 1994 Shirley said, ‘I used to make terrible scenes because I thought that was the way I had to act. Now I know better. I’ve learned how to say, “Sorry.”’

  Bernard Hall took a British European Airways flight from Paris to London on 12 September 1965, and by doing so, happened to become Shirley Bassey’s next tour manager. Just before take-off a man hurried up the aircraft steps. He slid into the nearest available seat. Once they were airborne the man lit a cigarette, drew the smoke down into his lungs and exhaled with a sigh of pleasure. He glanced across at the man in the next seat and his thin face split into a wide grin. ‘Wotcha cock’ he said. Bernard Hall turned to see Kenneth Hume.

  They had met now and then over the years, and Kenneth looked much the same to Bernard, the yellow hair, the gap-toothed grin. He might be thinner under his expensive suit but he was as hyperactive as ever, the same wide-boy from Soho, chain-smoking, and tea-drinking while Bernard enjoyed a Scotch. He’d been over in Paris seeing about French television for Shirley. Had Bernie done much? And Marlene Dietrich, did she do much?

  Bernard brought him up to date, and told him that he, himself, had done a lot of television in France and Switzerland. He gave Kenneth some useful names and added that he had never worked in British TV, which was considered the best.

  ‘Think I can help you there, Bernie. How would you like a few days in November? Shirley’s got a show.’

  A few days’ television would fit in nicely because the Bernard Hall Quintet was appearing during the month of October at the Edmundo Ros Club in Regent Street. It was to be the Quintet’s last appearance before they disbanded. Bernard had had enough of being manager, choreographer, lead dancer and sometimes nanny to four girls. He would probably tour with Dietrich in the new year and there was plenty of work for him at La Nouvelle Eve in Paris once the real season started on 15 September.

  Before their plane landed, Kenneth told Bernard that Shirley was opening at the Pigalle that night and suggested he call round and say hello to her before her show. Bernard said that calling round before a show wasn’t always a good idea. ‘Tonight it is,’ said Kenneth ‘because I’ve got plans. See ya.’

  Bernard did see Shirley before her opening. She let him into her dressing room then locked the door so that no one else could bother her. He said he’d only stay a moment but she told him to sit down. The air was heavy with the fragrance of French perfume. An expensive bottle of Guerlain’s ‘Mitsouko’ stood on the dressing table. He watched her use it. First she dabbed the scent on to a white face cloth, then she smoothed the cloth along her arms and legs. She wore only a flimsy kimono and was nude underneath except for a G-string. Nudity never bothered Shirley. Finally she stood up, lifted her wig from the base of her neck and gently touched her hair and neck with the flannel. The scent would waft out to the audience as Shirley made her sinuous body movements on stage.

  ‘Zip me up, Balls, will you?’ Shirley asked pointing to a black dress embroidered with sequins round the hem and layered with organza that hung on the dress rail. It was a glamorous number with a long split up the thigh. As he settled her into the dress she mentioned that Kenneth had told her that Balls would be doing some TV with them after her show closed in November. ‘Go and stay with Kenneth,’ she told Bernard. ‘He’s got this flat in Westbourne Terrace, save you money.’

  She was made up and ready for the show, so he couldn’t kiss her. Instead he touched her shoulder. Her muscles felt taut. She wanted him out of the way so she could be alone before the show. Merde he said, the word that, in the best theatrical tradition, he had often used to wish her luck in the old days.

  Outside in the corridor flowers were arriving, basket after basket of red roses. The dresser waiting outside Shirley’s door smiled at him as he looked at the profusion of blooms in amazement. ‘From Mr Hume,’ she said. ‘I bet there’s a thousand roses there.’

  The Pigalle Theatre Restaurant was jam-packed. Every table was full. The wiry little figure of Sammy Davis Jr surrounded by his entourage filled one table, while o
ther famous faces from the stage and screen could be seen elsewhere in the room. Dinner was over, there was noise and clatter as the waiters cleared away the remains of the dessert. They worked swiftly, they had to finish before Shirley came on. Every trolley must be wheeled out and the kitchen doors firmly closed. There must be no waiter service when Miss Bassey was on. Shirley had kept her vow that she would never be ‘thrown in with the dinner’.

  A small stage complete with microphone was silently moved out on to the dance floor in front of Alyn Ainsworth and his orchestra. Kenny, directing the orchestra, was at his place at the piano. There was a feeling of expectancy as the audience sat back in their chairs and waited for Shirley’s entrance. Through the haze of cigar smoke Bernard Hall saw Kenneth Hume waiting for him at the back of the restaurant. Just as he’d said, he was there in Tray Alley, the strip of carpet where the waiters plodded back and forth in and out of the now closed kitchen doors. Kenneth was combing his yellow hair ready for action. He needed an audience and here it came.

  There was a roll of drums and a voice announced, ‘Miss Shirley Bassey’. The applause grew, a woman yelled, ‘Shirley I love you.’ Two women fans jumped up and clapped furiously. Screams of joy, waves of applause and Shirley was into her ‘On a Wonderful Day Like Today’ routine.

  ‘She looks great,’ said Bernard.

  Kenneth nodded towards the spotlights. ‘Rose pink crossed with ice blue.’ The ice blue touched her skin with a frosty glow and made it look lighter, and the pink gave her radiance. Kenneth, however, wasn’t going to waste time with words or listening to Shirley, he was already striding off at high speed to the furthest periphery of the room, Bernard hurrying beside him. As they moved, Kenneth kept up a constant flow of information about the song that Shirley would sing on TV, the one that Bernard was going to fit into a dance routine.

  ‘Does Shirley like it?’ Bernard asked.