by Beezy Marsh
A bird-like little fellow with startling blue eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones perched himself right on the edge of the bar, like some kind of acrobat.
‘Evening Wilf – not seen you for a while. Pint, is it?’ said Ralph, flicking a tea towel at him, to tell him to get down.
He jumped back onto a bar stool and pulled his jacket pockets inside out. ‘Nunty dinari, mate, don’t get paid till Friday.’
‘I’ll stand you a half – we can put it on tick,’ said Ralph.
Annie started to pour him a drink; she could barely understand a word the man was saying but he seemed friendly enough.
‘Ooo, bona polone, where d’you find ’er, then?’
‘This is Annie, she just blew in on a gust of wind, Wilf, right to our front door,’ said Ralph, giving Annie an avuncular smile. ‘She’s been great with the little one too, takes the worry out of it all for me and the missus.’
‘Tell you what, Annie, I could zhoosh your riah right up and you’d look fantabulosa!’ he said, with a wave of his hands.
Was he making fun of her?
‘Wilf works backstage at the Royal, Annie. He’s just saying he could do your hair for you sometime, in theatre-speak. It’s called Polari.’
‘Oh, I see,’ she said, trying not to blush. She probably did need to make a bit more of an effort with her appearance.
‘I’ll lend you some slap and we’ll get your glad rags on, love,’ said Wilf, giving her a wink. ‘Paint the town red.’
Another man, taller and suave-looking, in a well-cut suit, his straw-coloured hair slicked back from his face, came over to join the conversation.
He leaned over the bar towards Annie: ‘I bet you can sing, can’t you?’
‘Well, I can hold a tune,’ said Annie, who’d got used to having a bit of a banter with the locals. ‘Does that count?’
‘What about dancing, I bet you move like a ballerina.’
Annie grinned at him. ‘Two left feet, I’m afraid.’
‘Ah, such a disappointment,’ he said. ‘There was I thinking I’d found the next Big Thing, working right here in Theatreland, pulling pints. Perhaps you just dropped in from the sky, because you look divine . . .’
‘Oh, stop teasing her, Stanley,’ said Ralph, handing him a whisky and soda. ‘Stanley’s always on the prowl for new talent, but you can’t have her, old man – she’s my best barmaid.’
‘She’s certainly the prettiest,’ said Stanley, flashing Annie a smile. His face was so clean-shaven, he had smooth skin, like alabaster, and even his fingernails were manicured. Annie had never seen a man looking so well kept, so smart. She tried not to gawp at him.
‘Where’ve you been lately, Stan?’ said Ralph, drying some glasses on a tea towel.
‘Away on the music-hall circuit up north, keeping an eye on business, you know.’ He gave Ralph a little wink.
Annie watched as he swallowed the amber liquid with gusto, making his Adam’s apple bob up and down, before putting the empty glass on the bar for her to refill it.
She didn’t have favourite customers, really, other than the musical-hall acts, who made her laugh and teased her. She’d got to know the drinkers who came in to pass the time, the punters who liked to settle down for hours playing cards and cribbage, as well as the silent regulars – the ones who never spoke and drank up quickly. But she started to look forward to seeing Stanley for a little chat at the bar every week, rather more than she would let on to anyone. He usually dropped by on Tuesday lunchtimes, or sometimes Wednesday evenings. So she was disappointed when he disappeared for a few weeks, without saying goodbye.
When he returned, softly calling her name while her back was turned to the bar, Annie was so delighted she almost dropped a bottle of brandy she was carrying.
‘Did I scare you, Annie?’ he purred. ‘You look like you could use a drink yourself. Can I buy you one?’
‘No, I don’t think Mr Hartwood would like that,’ she said, smiling because he had offered to treat her. Stanley glanced around the bar: ‘Well, I don’t see him anywhere. It could be our little secret.’
When he spoke, it was like being wrapped in a fur coat; his voice enveloped her in a kind of warmth.
Annie shook her head. ‘I really couldn’t, but thanks all the same.’
He took out a silver cigarette case and flipped it open. ‘Perhaps I could find some other way of corrupting you.’
He selected one for himself before offering one to her. There was a gracefulness to the way he moved which was almost irresistible.
‘Oh, I’ve never . . .’ she began.
‘Well, you should. All the sophisticated ladies smoke. Go on, give it a try.’
He placed the cigarette between his slender, manicured fingers and she hesitated for a moment before taking it from him and placing it between her lips. He took a match from the box on the bar and struck it, so that it flared, and then leaned towards her, lighting the cigarette, before returning it to his own.
She sucked on it a little bit, feeling the smoke snaking its way around her mouth, before self-consciously blowing it back out, giggling.
‘Here, I’ll show you how,’ he said.
He pursed his lips and she couldn’t help watching how his face changed, his features relaxing a little as he inhaled, almost as if he was swallowing something.
She tried again, drawing in, feeling the smoke burning its way down her airways so that she coughed and spluttered, and he had to pat her on the back.
‘Oh, God, I’m useless at this!’ she cried, holding the ciggie between shaking fingers.
‘You’ll learn,’ he said. ‘But that was terribly sweet to look at, all the same.’
Annie stubbed it out, grabbed the water jug on the bar and poured herself a glass, to try to take the awful taste away. As she sipped, he watched her closely.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, ‘What do you want out of life, Annie?’
It was such a searching question, she felt like one of those butterflies in the museum, skewered with a pin. She had hopes, secret hopes, for the future but she’d always been so busy putting everyone else before herself, it didn’t seem that there would ever be time – time for her to have fun, to meet someone, to fall in love, to have a family of her own, perhaps.
She smiled nervously. ‘I don’t expect much, I’ve never really . . .’
‘What about marriage and children?’
That question just about knocked her for six. ‘S’pose it might be nice, some day,’ she said, as breezily as she could, a bit like one of the heroines in the talkies. It was an effort, an actual physical effort, to squash down all the pain she’d felt when Ed had dumped her for Vera, all her fears about getting pregnant if she went courting, all the loneliness, so much loneliness; night after night, day after day, just wishing she had someone to share her life with – to talk to, really, just about the little things. To get into bed and feel a man’s arms around her and know that he cared, and that he’d always treat her right.
Stanley touched her arm and applied just enough pressure, so it was almost a caress, making her go quite weak at the knees. ‘I’d like to see you again soon. We can talk some more about the future. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of dreams you can share with me.’
The trouble was, she knew she had. She was dying to share her dreams with him and everything else too. Her heart was pounding so loudly he could probably hear it.
‘There’s so much going on in that little head of yours, isn’t there, Annie?’
Annie nodded mutely.
His mouth pressed itself into a little smile as he turned to leave, to get on with his very busy day.
When Wilf next popped into the pub, Annie asked him, rather self-consciously, if he’d been serious about helping her glam up a bit.
‘’Course I am, be delighted!’ he said, clapping his hands together with glee. ‘Is there some dish you’ve got your eye on, then? Go on, tell me!’
‘No one really, I just think I could probably do
with looking less like a laundrymaid and more like a barmaid, don’t you?’
Wilf took a long look at her. ‘You’ve got a nice bod and fantabulosa cheekbones, doll, but I reckon a bit more slap and you’ll look like a film star. Come and see me in my parlour at the Royal and I can give you a quick tour backstage while we’re about it, if you like?’
‘I’d love to!’ Annie had never been backstage in the theatre before and, although she wouldn’t normally consider being alone in a room with a fella, she felt perfectly safe with Wilf. She’d been a bit shocked at first, when she’d seem him talking that Polari slang with other blokes, huddled in corners, laughing and giggling together. Ralph had whispered to her: ‘It takes all sorts, Annie, remember that.’ She’d guessed then, and if anybody was that way inclined, it was best not to discuss it, because the law could get involved and nobody wanted that. Wilf was a lovely bloke and she counted him as a friend.
On her next free afternoon, she hurried across the road to the theatre and he met her at the stage door. She followed him down a maze of dark corridors to his room, where all the costumes were kept, neatly hanging on rails.
A Singer sewing machine had pride of place next to a work table, where Wilf was repairing some breeches for one of the actors. His bed was a little sofa with a worn jacquard cushion and a patchwork quilt for a bedspread.
‘It’s hardly the Ritz, Annie, but it’s home,’ he said, gesturing her to sit down.
He’d pinched a bit of stage make-up – probably best not to ask where from – and started applying some rouge and lipstick and powder to her face. He outlined her eyebrows with a dark pencil, to define them. After a few minutes, he seemed happy with his work and said: ‘Done!’ He handed her a little mirror and she was so shocked she couldn’t help but laugh when she saw herself. ‘I look like Coco the Clown with all that slap on!’
‘No, you don’t,’ he said, looking a bit hurt. ‘Let’s just sort your hair out, for Gawd’s sake. You’ve got a lovely bit of curl going on. What about a hairband to lift it a bit? Or a ribbon?’
Annie ran her hands over her hair, self-consciously. She’d had the same style for the last ten years: a long bob which was wavy at the back and never really did what she wanted it to.
He rummaged in a box of scrap materials and pulled out a length of dark green ribbon, looping it under her hair at the nape of her neck and fastening it at the side, just above her ears.
‘Hmm,’ he said, appraising his handiwork, ‘maybe not.’
He went over to the clothes rails and rifled through another box, emerging with some scary-looking tongs, with wooden handles and a metal prong at the end.
‘How about curling your hair?’
Before she had time to change her mind, he had chucked an old copper kettle off its perch on the gas ring in the corner and was heating the curling tongs.
‘Now, don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,’ he said, taking a section of her hair and wrapping it quickly around the barrel of the tongs, before releasing it.
‘Can you smell burning?’ said Annie, giving him a worried glance as the ends of her hair sizzled a bit.
‘Only me fingers,’ he said, shaking his hand where the tongs had singed him. After ten minutes of curling and primping, her new hair-do was unveiled. ‘I love it!’ she cried. ‘I do look a bit like a film star, don’t I?’
‘Yes,’ he said, warming to his theme, ‘but now we need to get you some glad rags.’
He selected a bright red silk kimono from the rail and tossed it her way. ‘Go on, try it on, I dare you!’
He pulled a huge feathered fan from a box of props and started fluttering it about in front of her face: ‘Look! Fan-Ann! Try it on, be a devil!’
Annie glanced around for somewhere to change.
‘Oh, I’ll turn my back, don’t worry,’ he said, as she started to unbutton her blouse. But he turned around just as she was stepping out of her skirt and was standing there in her liberty bodice, drawers and stockings.
‘Wilf!’ she shrieked, suppressing a fit of the giggles. ‘No peeking!’
‘Oh, I am so naughty, Fan-Ann, but what the bleeding hell is that corset thing? You look like Queen Victoria in that get-up! What about some nice underwear? French knickers are all the rage, darling.’
Annie sat down on the clapped-out sofa, feeling its springs giving way underneath her. She was still wearing the liberty bodices she’d had as a teenager because she just hadn’t been able to afford fancy underwear like the posh ladies. Now she had a little money saved from her wages, but it had never crossed her mind to buy fancy knickers and the like because there’d never really been any question of a man seeing her undergarments. ‘I haven’t got anything else,’ she said, pulling the kimono to her, to cover her embarrassment.
‘I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, doll, honestly,’ said Wilf, sitting down beside her. ‘But you have got to get yourself a nice brassiere, Annie. You have got a good figure, you just need to make the most of it.
‘Come on, Fan-Ann,’ he said, clasping her hands. ‘We’re going shopping!’
Gamages loomed over Holborn Circus, like a giant Aladdin’s cave.
Annie had never been in a shop selling so many things; the window displays alone were enough to make her head spin. They had typewriters and bicycles, and that was just for starters. The ground floor was stuffed to the gunnels with hats, scarves and bags, and there were heaps of leather gloves of every size and colour, which they stopped to try on, just for a laugh.
Wilf was on a mission to get her underpinnings sorted, though, so they didn’t linger long. Besides, the doorman was giving Wilf a few funny looks. ‘They don’t like the way I mince,’ he whispered in Annie’s ear, ‘but they can get stuffed, because I don’t care!’ He was like a streak of lightning, brightening up the afternoon, making everything fun.
They made their way up a warren of little staircases, each one leading to another treasure trove; this one with fur coats and stoles and that one with gentlemen’s suits. Finally, they found the ladies’ lingerie department on the third floor. You could have heard a pin drop as the matronly assistant looked Wilf and Annie up and down. ‘I presume the young lady requires assistance?’ she said, sniffily, peering over the top of her horn-rimmed spectacles.
‘Yes,’ said Annie, as she was led away to the changing rooms and Wilf gave her a little wave goodbye.
She emerged, twenty minutes later, looking more womanly and quite pleased with herself. Wilf nodded his approval.
‘Will madam be wearing it home?’
‘Yes,’ said Wilf, to the consternation of the shop assistant. ‘Madam will!’
She tutted to herself and then said, ‘I will just wrap this up for you,’ folding Annie’s old liberty bodice in some tissue paper. Annie pulled out her purse and unfolded a crisp ten-bob note, enjoying the feeling of being able to treat herself like this.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Wilf, with a laugh. ‘We’ll give it a decent burial, won’t we, Annie?’
They linked arms and left the shop, giggling like a pair of schoolgirls.
24
December 1934
‘He’s only gone and asked me to a dance at the Café de Paris!’
Annie was beside herself with excitement when she burst through the door into Wilf’s room at the back of the Theatre Royal. Stanley had come back from his latest tour of the north with a promise to take her out dancing before Christmas, somewhere really special, and he had been as good as his word.
‘Oh, Fan-Ann-fanacrapan!’ cried Wilf, abandoning the costume he was working on and sweeping her into a hug. ‘That’s fantastic! What are you going to wear?’
‘That’s the problem,’ she said, looking downcast. ‘I haven’t a clue and I can’t really afford any of those fancy dresses up in Gamages.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Wilf. ‘We’ll get a pattern and some material and I’ll help you run something up on my trusty sewing machine. Maybe I can make you look something like Ginger Rog
ers, in 42nd Street? You could be Anytime Annie!’ He guffawed at his little joke.
He was already pulling on his coat before Annie had time to tell him she hadn’t even seen that film yet. ‘Come on,’ he said, tugging at her sleeve. ‘Whatcha waiting for? Let’s go and have a look down Berwick Street market before it gets dark.’
They scurried off towards Soho and the narrow market street, where stalls were crammed in so tightly together there was barely space to move. Wilf wanted all the juicy details about how Stanley had asked her out and they linked arms and chatted. The smell of roast chestnuts filled the air and Annie bought a bag for them to munch as they went along.
All the well-dressed ladies wandering down the market had mink stoles on, to take the chill off the winter afternoon air. Annie stopped in front of a stall which was thick with furs, hanging up there, swinging in the breeze, but Wilf knew that was just a pipe dream. ‘Come on, Fan-Ann,’ he chided. ‘You can’t afford those. Let’s find you something jazzy for a nice gown.’
They stopped at a stall with rolls of material; it had silk by the yard, but that was out of her price range. Wilf ran some shiny rayon fabric through his fingers and dismissed it: ‘Too thin.’ Then he cast his expert eye over a bolt of cream-coloured rayon with black polka dots. The stall holder unfurled a length of it for him and he held it up to Annie’s face. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘We’ll take four yards, no, five, if you will give us a bit extra for free?’
Annie’s evening dress became her favourite project over the next fortnight. Wilf bought a dressmaking pattern from Gamages for a gown with flutter sleeves and a lovely V neckline and he showed her how to use the Singer machine, so she could get on with it when he was busy. Every spare moment she could, she’d steal away over the road to the theatre to sit there stitching and Wilf would pop in to keep an eye on her progress.
The night before she was due to go out with Stanley, she tried the finished dress on. It reached to the floor, so just the toecaps of her shoes were visible. ‘Oh, no, Annie,’ said Wilf, tutting at her old shoes as she swished about in it. ‘You can’t wear those old things.’ He pulled out a box from under the rail of costumes and emerged triumphantly, bearing a slightly scuffed pair of satin dance shoes. They were a bit big, so Annie had to stuff tissue paper down the end of each one, but they looked lovely, she had to admit, as she gave him a twirl in front of a full-length mirror.