by Mary Gibson
Matty would rather have explained things to Sam first, but now she went on.
‘I can’t pretend I haven’t been homesick. I’ve missed you all, and I’ve missed the London stage, my home crowd... you know.’ Matty could normally hold a smile for hours, but unaccountably she felt her lower lip tremble. Suddenly Eliza leaned forward and took her hand.
‘Rubbish, of course you’ve been homesick, Matty. And God knows I wouldn’t blame you. When I was in Melbourne with Ernest I used to walk by the river and pretend it was the Thames! There’s no shame in that.’
Had Eliza seen shame on her face then? There seemed little point in trying to deflect her. ‘Well, yes... but it’s not only homesickness,’ she said.
‘If you’re not happy in America, you don’t have to stay there, duck,’ Sam said matter-of-factly. ‘God knows, we’d be happy enough if you come home. Besides, don’t they make talkies in England too? But I suppose Mr Rossi would have something to say about it.’
‘Oh, I don’t take orders from Frank!’ Matty declared, perhaps a little too strongly.
‘No, of course not – nor from anyone else!’ Sam raised his eyes and they all laughed.
‘But it’s not been so easy financing the new film, since the Crash that is. There’s been a bit of a hiccup... I thought I’d make the most of it, see my family, you know.’ Matty felt she was stumbling.
‘Talking of Mr Rossi,’ Eliza interrupted with a knowing smile. ‘He’s been a great friend to your career – but is it a little more than a business partnership between you two?’
Matty felt a flush rising and was glad of the pale face powder she’d dusted herself with so liberally. She dipped her head to her handbag, feeling around for her cigarettes.
‘Leave her alone, Eliza, you’re making our Matty blush.’ Nellie tried to come to her rescue and Matty shot her a grateful look, but Eliza would not be put off.
‘I saw the photograph you sent Sam and Nellie of you two in his beautiful car, where was it? Los Angeles? He’s very handsome, Matty.’
Matty smiled as if Eliza had caught her out. Yes, Frank was handsome. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him that first day they’d met, when he came backstage at the New York Hippodrome. Hair black as a raven’s wing, swept back from his forehead, brown eyes fringed with dark lashes, long as a girl’s, and teeth like sharp pearls, flashing a smile as warm as the Italian sun he’d been born under. Oh, he was handsome all right, and Matty, to her intense annoyance, had felt the power of his charm pierce her normal defences with ease.
‘All right, if you must know, it is more... or rather, it was for a while.’ She shrugged her shoulders and flicked a tube of white ash into the fire grate. ‘It just... didn’t work out.’
Eliza, never one to ignore an awkward silence, plunged on. ‘Are you very upset about it?’
‘Upset? No! Not at all.’ And that part at least was true.
*
That evening Matty called in at the Star to see the manager, Bernie, for old time’s sake. These days it was primarily a cinema, but they still staged variety shows and a weekly talent contest when young hopefuls such as she’d once been could try their luck. She stood before the front steps, looking up at the old building which was dominated by huge film billboards. She was sad to see the old ‘Lardy’, as it had been known in her day, was no longer looking so ‘la-di-dah’. Bernie had let the place go and she thought it looked a bit of a fleapit. She pushed through one of the front doors.
‘Is Bernie in?’ she asked a young woman who was clearing up after the afternoon’s tupenny rush. The girl looked up and blushed, recognition dawning on her face.
‘I’ll get him for you, Miss Gilbie.’ She hurried away and while she was waiting Matty poked her head into the cinema. If she needed any convincing that the glory days of the old music hall were numbered, this was it. The carpet was still littered with the detritus of the tupenny rush, and a young boy was going along the rows collecting empty bottles of pop and sweeping up peanut shells. The ironwork was rusting on the ornate horseshoe-shaped balconies and great chunks of ornamental plaster were missing from the ceiling. That much hadn’t changed – the plaster had been crumbling for years – and she searched out above the stage the very patch which had fallen during one of her performances and nearly killed her. She seemed to hear the echo of her former self ringing around the place. All those rousing patriotic songs, God forgive her, she’d sung on that stage during the war. How many young men had been inspired by those to take themselves off to the battlefields of France? She shuddered, then turned at the sound of Bernie’s voice.
‘Matty, you’re a sight for sore eyes! Come here, beautiful.’
Bernie gave her a loud kiss and laughed. ‘What you slumming it down the old Lardy for? You should be in Hollywood making yer next talkie!’
He beckoned her out and she followed him to his tiny office. The walls were plastered with old programmes and posters proclaiming the luminaries who’d graced the Star’s stage over the years: Marie Lloyd and Vesta Tilley, Dan Leno and Charlie Chaplin – she doubted he’d ever be popping in to see Bernie again. And of course, she was up there too – the Cockney Canary. Bernie poured her a gin and fixed her with his professional eye. It was Bernie she had to thank for her first singing job – last on the bill a couple of nights a week during the war, and although the Star was now past its prime Bernie still knew the business inside out.
‘Between you and me, Matty, and it won’t go no further, I heard about yer bit of trouble.’
Matty froze. How much did he know? Nobody knew all of it, not even Esme. She took a gulp of gin and leaned back against the torn leather chair. Keeping her face expressionless, she waited for Bernie to carry on.
‘I heard Mr Rossi’s been finding it hard – getting you a backer for that new talkie. Not surprising the way things are over there. Is that why you’ve come back? Drumming up a bit of home-grown support?’
Matty let out a silent breath. If this was all Bernie knew, then she had nothing to fear. She’d brought home with her secrets far more dangerous than a failing career.
‘Times are hard, Bernie. To be honest I’m looking forward to having a break from the acting, getting back to singing while Frank’s doing all the financial stuff.’
Bernie nodded his head. ‘Esme’s been on the blower. I told her these days we only have a show once a month... the Lardy’s not what it used to be.’ He flung his arm wide, taking in all the past stars in its firmament. ‘But we’d love to have the Cockney Canary back... if you’re sure it’s worth your while?’
He fixed her with an appraising eye. Where was her star? He seemed to be asking himself. Was she still in the ascendant, or was she even now dipping low in the night sky, soon to disappear forever? Perhaps she might have to disappear one day. If Frank came looking, he’d only have to scan the show bills to find her. But for now she needed money and the down-at-heel old Star, tucked away in the maze of Bermondsey’s streets, was the least risky place she could earn it. Besides, the possibility of singing again had been the first thing to lift her heart since she arrived back in England. If she had to give up singing, then she might as well give up breathing.
‘For old time’s sake!’ She smiled and lifted her glass.
‘To the good old days!’ Bernie lifted his own and she noticed his shirt cuff was frayed. Times were hard for all of them it seemed.
As she left Bernie, with a firm booking for top billing at the next variety show, she reflected on the ‘little bit of trouble’ Bernie had referred to. She was relieved he only knew the half of it, but she’d been surprised that particular piece of showbiz news had made its way across the Atlantic already. Her first talkie had given her minor fame, but she’d known for a long time that a second would never be made. The Cockney Canary’s flight had in some ways been cut short by the flights of others.
They’d called them ‘the flyers’, the ruined men who couldn’t face life after the Wall Street Crash last year. She’
d seen one with her own eyes, casting himself from the skyscraper on to the merciless wind. Matty had looked up, following Frank’s excited, pointing finger. She wasn’t worried for the man, caught like a disjointed puppet on a whirling eddy. That ridiculous optimistic streak of hers had made her certain that he could fall hundreds of feet and at the last minute be jolted back from death by the invisible wire. Her years in the theatre had taught her that a flyer always had a harness and a wire; she’d flown with one herself, that year she’d played Peter Pan at the Alhambra. But instead the poor man had exploded on to the sidewalk like a ripe watermelon and Frank had to hustle her away into the nearest speakeasy, plying her with bourbon till the trembling gave way to a shocked numbness. She couldn’t know how in that moment her own fortunes had already turned, diving with the flyers whose ruined fortunes would leech money from backers of Broadway shows and talkies alike.
***
Matty’s show at the Star sold out in days. Her Bermondsey fans filled the balconies and she gave them her trademark selection of music hall favourites and new jazz songs. Her versatility had been part of her success; she could sing anything. She was pure and bright with ‘Silver Lining’, smoky and sultry with ‘Am I Blue?’ Then she made sure to make them laugh with her native cockney version of ‘Don’t Have Any More Missus More’. It felt good to be back here, in the place where she’d started. It reminded her of an earlier, simpler self, when all she needed to do was follow her desire to sing. She felt all the scattered parts of herself returning and as she sang, she felt the weight of her grief begin to lighten.
She was aware of Sam and Nellie and the rest of the family sitting in the front row, but in her imagination she placed another two in the audience: her mother, Lizzie, and her father, Michael Gilbie, who had died when she was only eight. They would stand her in their little kitchen when she was small, teaching her to sing from the stomach, indulging her fanciful ‘shows’ and praising her efforts so that she knew she could only ever be a success. Whatever stage she was on, in New York or London, it was always to them that she sang, and tonight was no different. The applause was so thunderous she thought the balconies might collapse along with a bit more of the ceiling plaster. After the show well-wishers called backstage, where Bernie had put on a party for her.
‘They gave you a good old Bermondsey welcome, didn’t they?’ Will James plucked two drinks from a side table and offered her one. Tonight he was dressed in a sharp evening suit and looked nothing like a docker. Matty felt the collar. ‘Nice whistle, you wearing that for the next rally to Hyde Park?’
‘Very funny, I’m just making an effort for you! But I bet all this must seem small beer after those glamorous Hollywood parties?’
Matty shook her head. ‘This is the best audience in the world!’
Eliza had overheard them. ‘She’s in no hurry to rush back to America, are you, Matty?’
And Matty smiled, perhaps a little too fixedly, for Eliza drew her to one side. ‘Is everything all right, Matty? If you’re tired we can leave. Sam and Nellie need to get back for the boys anyway.’
Matty nodded. ‘I’m ready to go.’ She was tired, but she was also worried. Esme had been unable to get her any more bookings. The Star once a month and the occasional appearance at the South London Palace wouldn’t keep the wolf from the door. Esme had promised to try the provinces for her. But Matty knew her tiredness was mostly the result of keeping up the charade. She had never been good at keeping secrets, and now she felt weighed down by layers of them.
Will walked them as far as Reverdy Road, but the night was still young for him and he stopped on the doorstep.
‘Actually the “whistle” wasn’t just for you.’ He smoothed down the well-cut jacket. ‘I’m off to a little club in Soho and you’d be surprised how many well-heeled young men will cough up for International Red Aid, especially if the person asking is wearing a decent suit!’
He winked at Matty, who found herself relieved he wasn’t coming home with them. Grateful for time alone with Eliza, she’d learned that her sister could be a wise confidante. Perhaps it was time to be more truthful. Who knew, she might be able to help?
They sat in the parlour with sherries, which Eliza had insisted they end the evening with.
‘It’s a triumphant return – you can’t go to bed on a cup of tea, Matty!’
Matty gave a tired smile and heaved a deep sigh. ‘Eliza, the truth is, it’s not a triumphant return at all. I’ve not been straight with you,’ she said in a rush. ‘And my career’s not going well, it’s going badly – has been since the Crash.’
She let out a breath. It was a relief to finally tell even that much of the truth, but she felt a blush rise to her cheeks as Eliza stared at her doubtfully.
‘Not going well? How can that be, Matty? Didn’t you see that poster in Vauban Street they were taking down? And look at tonight! They love you here, they loved you on Broadway, and what about Mr Rossi – he’s getting you into another talkie, isn’t he?’
‘Well, he did have plenty of ideas about my fabulous screen career. But, Eliza, he never counted on the Crash. The money ran out.’
‘But your Broadway show was a big hit. Surely they’d want you for another one.’
Matty raised her eyes and cocked her head to one side, in what she hoped was a plucky-looking gesture.
‘Truth is the show closed a few weeks after the Crash and there’s no backer for a new one.’
‘Oh, Matty, I’m so sorry, my dear. You’ve had all this worry and you never said a word to us.’
‘You couldn’t have helped me, Eliza. Not unless you’ve got any advice on how to revive a failing music hall career. If you have I’d be all ears!’ And she pulled at her lobes in a stage gesture which didn’t have her sister fooled for an instant.
‘Matty, dear.’ She put her arm round her. ‘If they don’t want you over there, you must just come back home, everyone loves you here.’ And she looked down with eyes full of an unaccountable love, which had always surprised Matty and sometimes puzzled her, since she’d done nothing at all to deserve it. For an instant she let herself lean against her sister, pretending that this was the extent of her problems, that all she had to do was pick up where she’d left off three years ago. As if the world was still bounded only by the West End and the Old Kent Road and she’d never heard of Frank Rossi, nor any of his plans for her great screen career.
‘It’s not as simple as that, Eliza.’
‘Actually, it is, Matty. The simplest thing is always to go where you are loved, and leave where you are not.’
It made Matty cry to hear this, after her months of feeling so alone with her secret loss, and she wished she could tell Eliza the whole truth. But instead with her finger she traced an old scar on the inside of her wrist. It looked like a wild strawberry, but was nothing so sweet; it was the trace of a cigarette burn earned for questioning one of Frank’s business choices.
‘My agent’s having trouble getting me bookings. I’m a bit worried about funds.’
Eliza looked shocked.
‘I put my own money into the new film...’ Matty explained.
‘Ohh, I see. And has that taken up all your savings?’
Matty nodded.
‘But things will get better, Matty, and until then you’ll always have a home here and you’re not to worry about money, do you hear me?’
Matty grasped Eliza’s hand. ‘You’ve always been so good to me, Eliza, not that I’ve deserved it. I know I used to be such an ungrateful little cow, but you’ve been the best of sisters.’
Eliza held on to her hand and Matty saw her eyes pool.
‘That means the world to me, Matty.’ Eliza closed her eyes and a spasm passed briefly across her face as she was caught by a coughing fit that left her breathless and unable to speak. She put a hand to her side, trying to cushion the effect of the coughing.
‘Liza?’ Matty asked, alarmed to see her in pain.
But then her sister opened her eyes and s
miled. ‘Those old seats at the Star have wreaked havoc with my back muscles. Let’s go to bed, and remember what I said, this is your home now and it always will be.’
She got up and put her arm round Eliza. ‘I don’t deserve you,’ she said, and together they walked slowly upstairs, Matty’s heart feeling lighter for having shed at least one of her secrets.
3
Am I Blue?
August–September 1930
Esme had drummed up a few bookings after Matty’s successful return to the Star and now she was on her way to her agent’s office to discuss them. The sense of being followed, which she’d had since arriving back in the country had abated in Bermondsey. The place was little visited by outsiders. Peopled by dockers and factory workers, it was a village in the middle of London where strangers stood out a mile. But now, back in the West End, where the world came and went, she had lost that feeling of safety.
As she turned into the side court from Charing Cross Road something made her look back. She didn’t know who he was, other than that he’d been the one haunting her dreams. The side court was a cul-de-sac, and he stood blocking her only way out. She could tell he wasn’t English. He lacked the London pallor and the way he stood was expansive, as if he owned the ground he stood on. His bulky wide-shouldered figure was draped in an extravagantly striped suit and a fedora was pulled low over his olive-skinned face. She knew he had come for her. Her heart pounded in her chest as he began walking slowly towards her. Perhaps she could call out to Esme, but it was unlikely the woman would hear her, way up in her top-floor office. If Matty was quick enough she might dodge round him before he could grab her. She knew her long legs would carry her at a speed, if she could only slip past.
But she did nothing, paralysed by the crooked smile on the man’s face as he approached. He reached into his inside pocket and Matty flinched, waiting to see the flash of metal as he withdrew a gun or knife. She’d expected to feel terror when the moment came, but instead she experienced an odd calm. It would be all right, she told herself, remembering her child, how still, how peaceful she’d looked. It would be like that for an instant, and then Matty would be with her again. She felt almost eager as she closed her eyes and sensed his bulk block the sun.