by Maynard Sims
Another bite of the cherry, she thought. Where is the harm in just talking?
‘And the other matter?’ the secretary said.
‘Ah yes, the breasts.’
Panic flared in Lizzie’s eyes.
‘You can do it in the outer office. I owe it to Oliver to send someone to him who fits all his criteria.’
He picked up the telephone and gestured the women away with a wave of his cigar.
***
Outside the stage door of the Apollo Theatre, two men stood smoking cigarettes. Judging from their work clothes, Lizzie guessed they were stagehands. 'Excuse me,' she said, as she stepped around them. 'Oliver Benson?' One of the men, the older of the two, flicked ash from his cigarette, and jerked his head in the direction of the door.
'Thank you,' she said, and went inside.
'Can I help you, Miss?' The doorkeeper looked out from his booth. He was grey-haired with a grizzled face and a day’s stubble on his chin.
'I’m here to see Oliver Benson.'
'Is he expecting you?'
'I believe so.'
'Straight down the corridor and up the stairs. His office is at the top.'
Lizzie thanked him and headed towards the stairs. She was halfway along the corridor when a door opened and a young man rushed out, almost crashing into her.
'Look out!'
He pulled up short, looking flustered. He was wearing a blue shirt with a red tie, but the tail of his shirt had escaped the waistband of his trousers and was flapping. He was young, younger than her.
'You almost had me over,' she said.
The young man stared at her earnestly. 'Good heavens, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.'
He had an open face, and wild curly hair which he’d tried to tame with a liberal application of hair oil, but it still hung about his face in rat’s tails. Under his arm he was carrying a bundle of sheet music tied with string. He stuck out his free hand. 'Jimmy Nichols.'
'Lizzie,' she said, taking his hand. 'Lizzie Stirling.'
'A pleasure to meet you, Lizzie Stirling,' he said, shaking her hand enthusiastically. 'Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must dash. I play piano for the rehearsals and they start…' He glanced at his watch. '…started five minutes ago.'
'Then you mustn’t let me keep you.'
He seemed to hesitate. 'Er, no, right.' He moved away. 'Are you here for a job?' he said, turning back to her.
'Hopefully. I’m here to see Mr Benson.'
He ran his hand through his hair, trying and failing to tidy the curls. 'Great. I’ll see you around, then.'
'I haven’t got it yet.'
Jimmy looked her up and down. 'Oh, you’ll get it,' he said with a smile. 'I know Oliver. He can’t resist a pretty face.' And then he turned and disappeared down the corridor. Lizzie carried on towards the stairs.
She stood at the bottom and stared up at the door at the top. It was an anonymous-looking door, with peeling green paint and a sign that bore the legend, Manager, and it filled her with apprehension.
She was halfway up the stairs when the door opened, and a short, tubby woman emerged. She was dressed for business in a smart, blue suit with a ruffled, cream blouse. Her iron-grey hair was cut into a short, severe bob with a fringe that cut across her forehead and finished an inch above the rimless spectacles that balanced on her button nose. She proceeded down the stairs, stopping only when she saw Lizzie. 'Oh, hello. Can I help you?'
'Mr Benson?'
'Well, you won’t find him up there,' she said, as she bustled past Lizzie. 'He’s in the auditorium watching the rehearsal.'
Lizzie didn’t answer but her mouth opened in an O.
The woman glanced back. 'Don’t worry. I’m going there myself. Follow me.'
The little woman carried on down, her heels clacking on the uncarpeted stairs. Lizzie turned and followed her.
They went through a pair of swing doors and Lizzie found herself at the back of the theatre, facing the stage.
The theatre smelled of disinfectant, stale cigarette smoke, and something Lizzie couldn’t identify, but which was equally unpleasant. Lizzie wrinkled her nose, and the woman noticed. 'Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. The smell of the great unwashed. But they pay our wages, so who are we to complain? I’m Rita, by the way. Rita Parminter, Mr Benson’s assistant.'
'Elizabeth Stirling. My friends call me Lizzie.' She offered her hand. Rita took it and pumped it enthusiastically.
'Oliver’s sitting just down there.' She pointed to a solitary figure sitting in the stalls ten rows back from the front of the stage.
There was a man on the stage, handsome in a swarthy, continental way, and he was singing one of the popular ballads of the day in a rich baritone voice, to the accompaniment of Jimmy Nichols seated at an upright piano. They weren’t the only people on the stage. There were half a dozen young women dotted about, standing rigidly in improbable poses, all scantily dressed in either silk slips or dressing gowns.
Rita lowered her voice. 'Sam Barrett,' she intimated. 'The star of our little revue.'
'He has a wonderful voice,' Lizzie responded.
'Sssh, don’t let him hear you. His head’s big enough as it is. This way.'
She led the way down the centre aisle, and stopped at the row of seats where Oliver Benson was sitting.
On the stage, Barrett noticed them and stopped singing.
From his seat, Benson said, 'Sam?'
'A visitor,' Barrett said, and pointed at Lizzie.
Benson looked round, mild irritation on his face, then stood and walked out to the aisle. 'Yes?' he said, as he reached the two women.
'Miss Elizabeth Stirling, Oliver, Here to see you.'
Benson looked Lizzie up and down. 'You’re one of Hoskins’ girls.'
Lizzie nodded.
'And you want a job?'
She nodded again.
'You don’t sing, you don’t dance, and you’re shy about showing your titties. I don’t see how I can help you.'
The man was effete. He wore a purple cashmere sweater, and his hair was elaborately coiffed. Lizzie couldn’t be sure, but she suspected he was wearing eyeliner.
'Mr Hoskins said I could just come in for a talk,' Lizzie said.
Benson raised his eyes skywards. 'My dear girl, if I wanted to listen to someone talk, I’d ring the speaking clock. Now, time’s money and we must get on.' He looked to the stage. 'Sam, dear, carry on from where you were,' he called, and pirouetted to go back to his seat in the stalls.
'All right, I’ll do it,' Lizzie said desperately. 'I’ll strip.'
Benson paused and turned back to her, his eyes narrowing.
The pause seemed to go on forever, and as the seconds passed, Lizzie started to regret her decision, taken rashly out of sheer panic. She had to get this job. She needed to eat.
'Of course, the hair will have to go,' Benson said. 'I like my women blonde.'
'Nonsense, Oliver,' Barrett said from the stage, where he’d been watching the exchange with interest. 'Miss Stirling is a natural brunette, and she looks just fine as she is.'
Benson turned to face him. 'But, Sam, all my girls are blonde. It’s what the public want.'
'Only because you never give them a taste of anything else, Ollie. Think what a fine Helen of Troy she’d make. Or Cleopatra. You’re not going to tell me the Queen of Egypt bleached her hair?'
Lizzie turned back to Benson, who was wearing a pained but thoughtful expression.
‘I suppose Sam has a point,' he said reluctantly. 'We’ve never done ancient Egypt. And I don’t think Van Damm over at the Windmill has, either. It will be a first.' He nodded. 'Yes. I think you may be onto something, Sam,' he called at the stage.
Lizzie stared up at Sam Barrett, gratitude in her eyes.
Barrett gave her a theatrical wink.
'Rita,' Benson said, 'take Miss Barrett backstage and introduce her to the rest of the girls.'
&nbs
p; 'You mean I’ve got the job?' Lizzie said. 'That’s it?'
'Unless you want a contract written in blood,' Benson said tartly. 'You start tomorrow. Rehearsals begin at ten. Don’t be late.'
'No, I won’t be,' Lizzie stammered. 'And thank you.'
Benson stared at her. 'Don’t you want to know how much I’ll be paying you?'
'Er, yes, I suppose I do,' she said.
'You’ll start on five pounds ten shillings a week, which will be reviewed after the first fortnight, once I’ve had the opportunity to assess the quality of your work… and your reliability. Understood?'
Lizzie nodded.
Benson smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant expression. Rather like a cat eyeing up a tasty-looking mouse. 'I’m glad you didn’t ask about the hours, because they’re long. We open for business at twelve o’clock midday, and stay open until eleven pm.'
Lizzie gulped audibly.
'Don’t worry, you won’t be expected to be on stage all that time. I run a roster system. Three hours on, and three hours off. But the shows run all day long. And you have to blame Vivian Van Damm at the Windmill for that. Him and his we never close policy. Bloody silly, but that’s the business now. Where Van Damm goes, we can only follow… like the sheep we are.'
Vivian Van Damm, the manager at the Windmill theatre, had come up with the revolutionary idea of a revue show that effectively never ended, running throughout the day and well into the evening, when the lights finally dimmed in time for people to get their last trains home, and other theatre managers had been forced to adopt the same policy or risk losing customers.
Lizzie felt thrilled. She had a job. She was finally employed. It was not ideal work, but at least she had been given another chance. And who knew where it might lead.
'Come on, let’s take you to meet the other girls,' Rita said. 'This way.'
She led the way backstage – a cramped system of corridors, containing all the mechanisms for keeping the theatre running smoothly. There were a dozen stagehands all going about their business, fixing lights, repairing scenery. She saw the two she had seen earlier outside smoking, but if they recognized her they didn’t show it. They were putting the finishing touches to a painting of a tree on one of the flats, and they didn’t look up as Rita led her past them.
Rita stopped outside a door in one corridor and rapped on it with her knuckles. 'Are you decent in there?'
'Yes, come in.' A voice floated out from behind the door.
Rita twisted the knob decisively and pushed open the door. There were three young women in the rather small room. A line of dressing tables lined one wall, and two of the women sat adjusting their makeup in the illuminated mirrors. The third girl was sitting cross-legged on a chair, a copy of Photoplay open on her knee, which she seemed to be reading as she filed her toenails. She looked up as the two women entered. 'What ya selling, Reet?' she said in broad cockney.
'I’ve a new playmate for you, Florence. This is Elizabeth – Lizzie – Stirling. She’s joining our happy band.'
Florence uncrossed her legs, letting her magazine fall to the floor, and stood. 'Florence Etheridge,' she said. 'You can call me Florence or Florrie, but never Flo. I hate Flo. The two at the mirrors, making themselves more beautiful than they are already, are Janet and Constance… she’ll let you call her Connie once she gets to know you.'
'How do you do,' Lizzie said. She had taken to Florrie instantly. There was something genuine and very warm about the cockney’s manner that Lizzie found very attractive. And in the beauty stakes Florrie was no slouch, either, with her peaches-and-cream complexion and her full-lipped, sensual mouth. She was blonde, of course.
'I’m just off on my lunch break,' Florrie said. 'Do you want to come, Lizzie? There’s this café next door to the theatre that makes a lovely cup of tea.'
'I’d love to,' Lizzie said. 'Thank you, Florence… Florrie… and thank you, Rita, for making me feel so welcome.'
'You’re very welcome, my dear. You’ll soon discover we’re one big, happy family here.'
'Are you fit for the off?' Florrie said to Lizzie as she shrugged her way into a tweed overcoat three sizes too big for her.
She saw Lizzie staring at the coat. 'Camouflage,' she said. 'Stops the stage door Johnnies ogling you as you walk past.'
'At eleven o’clock in the morning?'
Florrie raised an artfully plucked eyebrow. 'You’d be surprised. I had one, I nearly had to buy him a tent, he was there so often, day and night.'
'That’s right, Florrie,' Janet said from the dressing table. 'What about the one who proposed to me last Valentine’s Day? Found out he was married with three kids, and didn’t even have a job. Just used to spend all his time hanging around the theatre.'
'You get all sorts,' Florrie said. 'It’s the nudity, you see. One glimpse of your tits and they think they’re in love. So I wear this. I find it puts them off. Coming?'
She pulled open the door. 'Back at twelve, Reet.'
'Don’t be late. I don’t want Oliver having the vapours if you’re not back on time.'
'Don’t fret. Besides, I’m not on stage until two. I won’t do anything to upset him.'
'Mind you don’t,' Rita said. 'You know how he gets.'
'You want to buy him a dummy, Rita, then when he has one of his tantrums you can stick it in his mouth to pacify him,' Constance said.
Rita shook her head. 'If it were only that easy, Connie dear. If it were only that easy.'
***
George’s Café nestled in a spot at the top of an alleyway that ran down the side of the theatre. The proprietor looked up from washing plates and smiled as Florrie and Lizzie entered and took their seats at a table in the window.
‘I’m just amazed Mr Benson gave me the job,’ Lizzie said.
‘Well, he didn’t really have much of a choice, did he?’ Florrie said, divesting herself of her coat and hanging it over the back of her seat.
‘What do you mean?’ Lizzie said defensively.
‘Oh no, no offence. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that I was watching from the wings and it was obvious that Sam Barrett had taken a shine to you, and Ollie’s shrewd enough not to upset the star of the show.’
‘Taken a shine? What do you mean?’
Florrie made herself comfortable in her seat again and thanked George as he set two mugs of tea down on the table in front of them.
‘To be honest, Lizzie, I thought Sam Barrett was like Ollie… you know… queer as a coot. I mean he stands there on stage, surrounded by naked women. Not only that, but he has a dozen or more women hanging around outside the stage door every night, and I’ve never seen him so much as notice them. But he seemed to take a keen interest in you.’
‘No, you’re imagining…’ She was interrupted by the growling of her stomach.
Florrie looked up at her sharply. ‘When did you last eat?’
Lizzie blushed. She’d used the last of her food money on this stupid perm – curled and crimped to impress. How short-sighted she’d been. ‘Er, Monday… I think.’
Florrie raised her eyebrows, got to her feet and crossed to the counter. ‘Two breakfasts, George.’
George looked up. ‘You want toast to go with your tea?’
Florrie shook her head. ‘No, the full English, and toast.’
‘Coming right up.’
Florence went back to the table and sat down. Lizzie was looking embarrassed. ‘I can’t afford it, Florrie. Not until I get paid.’
‘And what are you going to live on? Fresh air sandwiches?’
‘I can’t afford the bread,’ Lizzie said glumly.
‘I’ll pay,’ Florrie said brightly.
‘I can’t let you do that.’
‘And I can’t sit back and listen to your belly playing the 1812 overture. No arguments. I’m paying. You can see me right when you get your wages.’
‘Thank you. I owe you.’
‘Where are you
sleeping? I don’t suppose it’s at your mother’s. No mother I know would let her daughter go hungry.’
Lizzie shook her head. ‘No, Mum’s dead – a year after Dad ran off with a clippie on the number 29. The doctor thinks she died of a broken heart.’ She paused, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘I’m at the YWCA in Gerrard Street,’ she continued after a moment.
Florrie’s eyebrows arched even higher. ‘Well, you could knock me down… I never had you pegged as one of those.’
‘One of what?’
‘A Bible basher.’
‘I’m not. I was just… desperate.’
‘Well, they won’t like it when they find out you’re working at the Apollo. Bloody Christians tried to get us closed down last year. No, you can come back and stay at my digs. They’re not far from here, and Mrs Kendricks has got room. You might be in the attic, but as long as you take regular baths, don’t break the china, and don’t invite men up to your room, you should be fine.’
Lizzie shook her head. ‘I couldn’t. I really can’t afford it.’
‘Tosh,’ Florrie said dismissively. ‘Once you’re working you’ll have enough to pay for your board at Mrs Kendricks’, and put food in that belly of yours. I’ll sub you until then.’
Lizzie lowered her head as she tried and failed to hold back the tears.
George appeared at the table carrying two plates of eggs, bacon, sausages and fried bread. He took one look at Lizzie and said, ‘My tea’s not that bloody bad.’
‘Ignore her, George,’ Florrie said. ‘She’s just having a moment. You know what us theatricals are like. Highly strung.’
George smiled. ‘I know some who should be,’ he said, and returned to his post behind the counter.
Florrie picked up her knife and fork. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Dig in. Don’t let it get cold.’
Lizzie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and dug in. She had never tasted anything so delicious in her life.
***
The two weeks of her probationary period passed her by in a flash. She didn’t think she had ever worked as hard during her time as an actress. The non-stop nature of the shows was exhausting, even working to Oliver Benson’s roster system. Posing stock still for anything up to twenty minutes at a time was more tiring than she could ever have imagined. And it had to be stock still. Any movement from the naked living statues would bring down the wrath of the Lord Chamberlain’s office and mean certain closure.