Ambulance Girls At War

by Deborah Burrows

  ‘I hate them things,’ said Sadler as he gave Harris some change for a shilling. He raised his voice to imitate a middle-class accent. ‘What have we here, in this here cupboard? Why, there’s enough old wallpaper here to make simply thousands of cartridge wads. Salvage is important. Chri – I mean gawd, I hate that bloke’s voice.’

  ‘They can’t make me do it,’ repeated Celia. ‘I won’t.’

  The script arrived on Friday morning, three copies, one each for me, Celia and Lily. We went to the ladies’ washroom to read them together in peace.

  I was ‘Mary (middle-class girl)’, Celia was ‘Linda (upper-class girl)’ and Lily was ‘Sheila (Australian girl)’. The famous film star, Billie Prescott, was ‘Rose’. There was another woman called ‘Poppy (working-class girl)’, who was also a real ambulance driver. She had one line about the sort of world she wanted when the war was over. The other actors in the cast were ‘Bert (Cockney)’ and ‘Henry (Yorkshireman)’ and ‘Avis (shop girl)’. Like Miss Prescott, they were professional actors, and they had most of the lines.

  The story was simple. The team is at the ambulance station, chatting and being friendly, getting on with their daily routine. A raid commences, and they all go out to collect the injured. It’s a bad raid with lots of falling buildings and fire. The team are shown working together to get the wounded to hospital. Bert is overcome with fear and can’t go on. Rose gives him a pep talk. Rose and shop girl Avis run into a burning building to save a trapped man. Great tension when everyone thinks they’ve been killed. They emerge victorious with their patient on a stretcher. Henry and Bert remark on what a great job the ambulance girls – indeed all British women – are doing in this war, and how they’re often braver than the men.

  My one line was, ‘My word, Jerry’s coming over thick and fast tonight.’

  Celia was supposed to say, ‘My parents didn’t want me to take this job. They don’t understand how glad I am to be here in this station with you all and doing my bit. Being a small part of something so big.’

  Lily’s lines were: ‘Sometimes I dream I’m back home in Sydney, but once I’m awake I know there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here in London, right now.’ And later on, ‘My convict ancestor would laugh to think I was over here defending the old country, the one that sent him out to Botany Bay. But, somehow, I think he’d approve.’

  Lily read out her lines in a flat voice and looked up from the script in horror. ‘This is simply ghastly. All of it, even the lines given to Billie Prescott, they’re all appalling.’

  She turned a few pages, and said in a tone of amused disgust, ‘Good heavens. Look at this. Just turn to page ten.’

  I flicked through the pages and found page ten.

  INTERIOR: AMBULANCE STATION

  Outside a raid is on. Sounds of gunfire and bombs falling. BERT and ROSE sit at a shaking table, drinking tea from tin mugs.

  BERT (shakes head slowly): I can’t do it. I can’t go out there again.

  ROSE: Bert, we must go out there. No matter what it’s like, no matter how bad it gets. It’s our job, you see. Our job. They’re depending on us.

  BERT: I sees all right. I sees you little scraps of things driving out into the heart of the Blitz, picking up the injured through bombs and bullets. Aren’t you ever scared, love?

  ROSE: Oh, Bert, don’t ever think I’m not afraid. When the bombs are falling my heart pounds like a drum, but I can never forget that these people, our people, need us. And that it’s our job to help them. We’re all on the front line in this war, remember. Men or women, town or country, no matter what our background, we’re all in it together. (Stands) So let’s get back in that ambulance and drive to where we’re needed.

  BERT and ROSE exit the room.

  Celia’s expression as she read this was as if there was a particularly bad smell in the air. Lily pretended to vomit.

  I said, encouragingly, ‘I’m sure it all sounds better when said out loud by a proper actor and actress.’

  Lily threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh, Maisie, how can it? It’s putrid.’ She said, in a mincing voice, ‘It’s our job, you see. Our job!’

  Celia shrugged and threw her copy of the script down on to the table. ‘Well, I’m not saying a damn thing. Just let them try and make me.’

  We were picked up a few hours later by an ATS girl driving the film unit’s big saloon. She deposited us at the entrance to Ealing Studios in west London, telling us to wait for ‘Harry’.

  I felt a tremor of excitement. I’d had acting lessons at Italia Conti, but I’d never been a great success. Maybe I’d be different this time. I fell into a daydream of being ‘discovered’, ending up as a famous film actress and receiving a fan letter from Michael Harker.

  Lily chatted to the uniformed guard, who was an elderly man with a little moustache. ‘How big is the studio?’ she asked.

  ‘Very big indeed,’ he said, and continued in a well-rehearsed manner. ‘Four sound stages giving us in total almost twenty-eight thousand feet of film space.’

  Lily made a sound indicating amazement.

  ‘Ealing Studios,’ he went on in a smug voice, ‘is the oldest film studio in the world and has been the centre of the British Film Industry since 1902.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Lily, looking suitably impressed.

  A thin older woman in slacks and a baggy cardigan emerged from the building.

  ‘I’m Harry,’ she said, and checked our names off on the clipboard she was carrying. ‘Follow me.’ She led us along a maze of corridors until we ended up at a small set somewhere in the rear of the building. It had a big table in it, in front of a plywood back with a painted window. The table had been set up with tin cups and a telephone. Cameras and lights in front of the table glared at it ominously. Harry pointed to a line of chairs against the wall and told us to, ‘Sit there’.

  Celia set her mouth mutinously at that and I feared trouble. She said, in her regal manner, ‘A simple “please” wouldn’t go astray.’

  Celia’s accent was the sort that ruled empires; it was, on the whole, loathed by all except those with a similar accent. The woman gave her a venomous glare.

  ‘Dear ladies,’ she said, through gritted teeth, ‘please do sit down.’

  We sat.

  ‘What now?’ asked Lily.

  ‘You wait,’ said Harry. ‘There’s an awful lot of waiting when you make a film. You’ll need to get used to it.’

  ‘This is only a screen test,’ said Lily, but the woman had wandered off.

  Mr Denbeigh turned up ten minutes later with a man he introduced as Les, the cameraman.

  ‘Know your lines?’ asked Denbeigh, smiling. ‘Capital. Say them with plenty of oomph.’

  We sat around the table and drank water from the tin cups as if it were tea and said our lines.

  Lily was a natural, giving a performance with just the right degree of loneliness mixed with defiance. It turned out that she could even cry on cue.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Mr Denbeigh. He turned to the camera man. ‘Be sure to get a close up of her in the action scenes. We’ll make her face dirty and film the tears tracking through the dirt on her cheeks.’

  I was wooden, and soon realised I was there only because of my assets.

  ‘Could you arch your back a little,’ said Mr Denbeigh. My shirt strained when I did so. I heard him mutter to the cameraman, ‘Marvellous. We’ll put her in a tight shirt and a short skirt.’

  When Celia’s turn came she stood in front of the camera as if she was carved of alabaster. She said her lines as if she were reading a train timetable, in an accent so clipped and county that her lovely lips barely moved.

  Denbeigh stood behind the camera, seeing how the camera viewed her. He smiled.

  ‘Marvellous,’ he said, encouragingly. ‘The camera loves you. Would you mind awfully if we cut your lines? You’d look simply wonderful in the background. No need for you to talk at all.’

  Celia’s face relaxed into a smug expression. ‘
No,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind at all.’

  Denbeigh looked up from the camera. ‘All three of you are marvellous. Just marvellous. Pop along with Harry now to be fitted for your costumes and I’ll see you bright and early on Monday morning.’ Denbeigh walked away.

  We followed Harry along the maze-like set of corridors to a large room filled with racks of clothes. Harry explained the needs to the wardrobe mistress, who referred to a sheet of paper she’d already been given.

  ‘Pop your clothes off, dearies,’ said the wardrobe mistress. ‘Down to your undergarments, please. I’ll take your measurements.’

  ‘One change,’ said Harry. ‘Director wants Miss Halliday in a skirt. Make the most of her figure. Tight shirt, short skirt, that sort of thing.’ She checked her clipboard. ‘Silk stockings.’

  I raised my eyebrow at the wardrobe mistress.

  ‘Pre-war stock,’ she said. ‘Hen’s teeth nowadays, of course. So, for God’s sake, don’t ladder them.’ She frowned. ‘I’ll put you in lisle for the outdoor shots; no one will see the difference.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Film-making is all rather a muddle. Lots of people wander all around the place and it takes a great deal of time to get anything done.

  As soon as we arrived ‘on set’ on Monday morning, we were met by Anne Tait, a tall girl with clear grey eyes and a calm demeanour, who informed us that she was the assistant to the first assistant director. She carried a clipboard and seemed to be at ease with the controlled chaos that surrounded her. She said we were to present ourselves at Wardrobe.

  ‘They’ve prepared your costumes,’ she said as she led us to the costume room.

  The uniforms they’d prepared were lovely. Tan slacks for Celia and Lily, tight skirt for me that came to the middle of my knees. Shirts, ties and fitted jackets. I was given a pair of lovely silk stockings. My shirt was a size too small. I looked at the wardrobe mistress.

  ‘He wanted oomph, love,’ she said. ‘You’ve got plenty. Try not to pop a button, there’s a good girl. I’ve put in some darts to make the most of your figure, and please use this brassiere – it’s specially designed for girls with oomph.’

  Once we’d dressed we preened in front of the mirror.

  Lily gave me a whistle. ‘Oomph galore,’ she said. ‘You’ll knock their socks off.’

  ‘Now to make-up,’ Anne told us, again checking her clipboard. ‘Stick with me.’

  We stuck like glue. As we followed her along a narrow corridor I wondered how different it would be to be made up for a camera, rather than the stage.

  The make-up room had mirrors along the wall with a seat in front of each, and an older man with a bright cheery attitude. I’d met many such in my days treading the boards. He must have been at least sixty but his face was determinedly young-looking, and I assumed that he used his products on himself.

  ‘These are the ambulance girls,’ said Anne.

  ‘Good morning, lovely ladies,’ he said. ‘I’m Hal. Sit down, please. Who’s going first?’

  ‘I will,’ I said.

  Hal sat me in a chair and covered me with a sheet up to my neck.

  ‘You an actress, darling?’ he asked. ‘You seem awfully at ease.’

  ‘Before the war I was a Tiller Girl,’ I said proudly.

  ‘I can always tell a theatrical,’ he said, with a brisk nod. ‘I started out in the music hall circuit, and I simply adored the chorus girls.’ He stared at my face, made a ‘hmmm’ sound and turned to rummage around in his box of tricks. ‘They did their own faces, of course, but they were always so sweet to little old me.’

  I thought I knew why. So many men backstage were predators, all too ready to poke, or pinch or push against you as you waited to go on, or came offstage. Someone like Hal, who seemed sweet, polite and obviously not interested in that sort of thing, would be a tonic.

  ‘I think I’ll give you the make-up I gave Googie Withers. Your features remind me of her.’ He preened a little. ‘I did her make-up in Trouble Brewing with Mr George Formby. Did you see it?’

  ‘I did. I love Mr Formby.’

  ‘Such a gentleman. But, my dear, his wife!’ He shuddered.

  Hal dotted pale greasepaint all over my face and blended it in with a ruthless efficiency. He followed up with a medium shade then a darker one. I’m quite olive-skinned, so a fair bit of the dark shade was used.

  ‘You look awfully orange, Maisie,’ said Lily.

  I met Hal’s eye in the mirror. ‘It’s for the lights,’ I said.

  Carmine was added to my cheeks to add some colour.

  ‘Why the red?’ asked Celia. ‘It’s a black and white film, surely.’

  Hal and I had another silent communication in the mirror.

  ‘It’s so the shadows will look natural, under the lights,’ I said.

  Blue eyeshadow next, a touch of kohl eyeliner and mascara.

  ‘They want a little dirt,’ said Hal, and proceeded to artfully apply a few smudges.

  This time I caught Celia’s eye in the mirror and choked back a giggle at her horrified expression. I noticed, however, that Hal added less ‘dirt’ to Celia than me or Lily.

  Faces made up and dirty, we were led to the sound stage, which was like a huge warehouse, with equipment and cables in jumbled heaps around the floor. We all sat down to a cup of tea and soggy biscuits, served from a cart by another woman in a grey overall.

  I saw Mr Denbeigh chatting to a woman I recognised as Billie Prescott, the famous movie star. She was very pretty, with large grey eyes and chestnut hair, but was older than I’d realised.

  ‘Is Mr Denbeigh the director?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he tells us what to do?’ asked Lily.

  ‘No, the first assistant director will do that.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Over there,’ said Anne, pointing to a small, rotund man with a worried expression. ‘Hubert Morris.’

  ‘What does the director do, then?’ asked Lily.

  ‘He has a vision of the entire film, and will make sure that it ends up the way he wants.’

  Celia seemed sceptical. ‘This is a twenty-minute quasi-documentary,’ she said. ‘What vision is needed?’

  Anne was obviously affronted. ‘Every film we make is important, and every one of them has to fulfil the needs of the War Office and the Ministry of Information. This film will tell the public what ambulance drivers do in a raid, show how you women muck in and get the job done. It will give the audience a front row seat into your nights during the Blitz.’

  ‘The script’s awful,’ said Lily. ‘A dog’s breakfast.’

  Anne’s mouth quirked up. ‘The version you got isn’t the final one. Don’t worry, they’re still working on it. And changes are often made during filming.’

  As if on cue, a small girl in a long cardigan and baggy slacks approached us. ‘You lot the real ambulance girls?’ she asked briskly.

  When we nodded she handed out some papers. ‘Revised script.’

  I leafed through my copy. My one line remained: ‘My word, Jerry’s coming over thick and fast tonight.’

  Lily’s lines were shortened:

  INTERIOR: AMBULANCE STATION

  LILY: Sometimes I dream I’m back home in Sydney.

  BERT: Wish you was back there?

  LILY (smiles): When I’m having the time of my life here in London? Not a chance.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Lily, grudgingly, ‘but still pretty dire.’

  ‘It’ll probably go through some more changes before it hits the screen,’ said Anne. ‘A lot is done on the run.’

  The appalling page ten had been rewritten and was a little better. Celia’s lines had been cut out entirely.

  We waited.

  ‘Get used to it, said Anne. ‘Making a film consists of waiting, some frenzied action, and then more waiting.’

  ‘Well I’m bored and tired,’ said Celia. She shook out a blanket she’d found somewhere, wrapped it around herse
lf and went to sleep in her chair.

  ‘Want to join her?’ asked Lily.

  ‘I’m too wound up. I wish something would happen,’ I said.

  A young woman wandered across to us. ‘I’m Diana Beauchamp,’ she said, in a posh sort of voice. She glanced at Celia’s sleeping form and lowered her voice. ‘I’m from Station 39.’

  ‘You must be Poppy,’ said Lily, ‘the one who talks about the need for a more equal Britain after the war. Are you going to put on an East End accent?’

  ‘No. Poppy is over there.’ Diana pointed to a small girl with dark curls who was talking to the cameraman. ‘Molly Pike from our station. I’m a posh girl called Lady Harriet. Haven’t a clue why they chose me for this, but I think it’s my voice. They called me in at the last minute, but I’m not too worried. I’ve done some acting before.’

  I looked at her, confused. ‘But there’s no Lady Harriet in our script. We got a new script at eight o’clock.’

  Molly wandered over. ‘I’m Cockney Poppy,’ she said. ‘And a right lump of school she is, too.’

  ‘A what?’ said Lily.

  ‘A fool,’ said Molly, laughing. ‘In’t the script awful? The audience’ll think we’re mental.’

  ‘I think you have a different script to us,’ said Lily, looking worried. ‘Lady Harriet isn’t in ours.’

  Molly held up some papers. ‘They gave this one to me and Beechy at nine.’

  Lily went to Anne in a fever of anxiety, and Anne ran off to find the latest version. When we were handed the new script, our lines hadn’t changed, but Diana/Lady Harriet had the lines previously given to Celia/Linda, although slightly improved.

  We waited.

  ‘Is this normal?’ asked Celia, who had woken up and been introduced to Diana.

  ‘Is what normal?’ asked Diana.

  ‘For everything to take an age?’

  ‘Quite normal.’

  The sound stage was full of people scurrying around not doing much. People frowned and moved cameras and lights to new positions then frowned again and moved them back to where they had originally been. Sounds of hammering came from somewhere over to our left.