Never mind all that. You pay the price for being good and being on time. I’m past the point now where I worry about being misunderstood, even by myself. Never mind. There are no prizes in this business for knowing yourself. None. I have worked in showbusiness all my life. That is all I know and that is all I need to know. I love talented people and as I’ve told you they sure make the world go round.
A girl came in here the other month. I swear she’s thirteen years old, and she doesn’t even look thirteen. She is tiny. They found her in Scotland, and I said, ‘Where from?’, and they said, ‘Isle of Bute’. Chrissakes, I remember that place from the air, I said, I remember flying over there and the green on the hills you wouldn’t believe it, 1943, and the water around the Clyde there, my God it’s a boom from the tomb that one. And this little girl comes in, she sings like Barbra Streisand. We bring her into the studio and she sings out of that little body like Ethel Merman, Jesus, the beautiful voice on her, and the feeling in her movements. She’s full of fun too. All that fun the good ones always have, the confidence, she reminds me of myself, working hard, keeping time, rolling her blue eyes and giving it a bit of razzmattaz. She’s got the nature. She’s got the liveliness, God bless her heart, the maturity.
Well, she just might be the best I’ve ever heard. Talent is a matter of guts and that girl has guts to spare, you should see her rehearse, unfailing, tireless, God she goes the whole bundle, and we know nothing about her except she’s a little Scottish-Italian girl. Well we don’t need to know anything about her.
It’s snowing outside.
Every time I drink a glass of claret it goes straight to my face.
Quiet now. I get tired in the afternoons.
Talent is the fight against silence. I mean that most sincerely, folks.
2
Primrose Hill
Marion Gaskell Associates was situated in a small office above one of the guitar shops in Denmark Street, but the lady herself, one of the best light entertainment agents in the business, was able to do a lot of work from her house in Primrose Hill, where she kept a room of her own at the very top. The room mattered to her, and it contained the oldest and most beautiful rug in the house, as well as a desk and two red telephones, one of which, the more used, had its own line, as well as its own callers.
She clipped on a second cameo earring and then pulled a string which made the wooden blinds open. ‘Oh shoot,’ she said under her breath, ‘no more snow.’ The trees on the hill were forlorn-looking, and up at the top a group of children in coloured mittens were struggling with a sled that wouldn’t move. ‘Poor little things,’ said Marion. When she poked a finger through the blinds and looked down the other end of St George’s Terrace, she noticed a couple of men in hard hats inspecting a building next to the Queen’s Arms. She watched them for a minute then went to her desk to look for a lozenge. ‘All architects should be cut in half,’ she whispered, opening a drawer, ‘and so should their bills.’
The private phone rang. ‘Good morning dear,’ she said. ‘What, what? Yes. We’re doing press at eleven and then we’ll talk to Richard. Tell them to wait. Yes, darling, tell them to wait, we’ve got rehearsals beginning at three and we’re in make-up for six. Not a hope darling. Tell them to ring tomorrow and in the meantime do sort out the parking. I’m not having that again. Yes. Jolly good.’ While she sat speaking to the office, Marion doodled on a pad; she drew a circle and another circle inside it. ‘We’re not in the business of booking foreign yet. Lawrence can speak to me directly. No. If we win again tonight we might retire her – go out on a high. That’s right. That’s the ticket. Well you’ll have to make them wait, darling, there’s only so much we can do. All right. Now, off you pop, dear, time’s running along. Indeed. Goodbye.’
Marion went back to the window and looked down the street again. She sometimes wondered if all the eccentrics were disappearing. You didn’t see those people much any more, like Dora Wilner, from Vienna, ancient and full of stories, coming along Chalcot Road in her black gown and headscarf, singing to passers-by and shouting out her news. Coming home from the Criterion the previous night, Marion passed Fred Oaglam, a man with no teeth whom everybody knew; he was a casualty of the war, the only man to survive the bomb attack on the air-raid shelter up on Primrose Hill, and now the only people who could get any sense out of him were squatters and layabouts. For years Oaglam had been walking up and down Regent’s Park Road with a mailbag of empty fizzy drink bottles over his shoulder. He used to pick them up from building sites and railway stations and at the Queen’s they let him exchange the empties for tobacco. And what changes down there, thought Marion, down in the pub, though she hated pubs, and had no interest in what happened there, her only connection to it being in her concerns as a local conservationist. She rearranged the blind and sneezed politely into a tissue in her hand. The Queen’s: they were tearing down the old velvet curtains and replacing that beautiful glass, changing everything. And to think that Lillie Langtry once turned heads in there.
Marion’s spectacles hung on a chain, yet she had a habit of holding on to one arm of them as she came down the stairs, passing framed prints of caricatures from the old Vanity Fair. Further down, on the second floor landing, she stopped to look at her prize possession. Indeed every morning she stopped to survey the picture, and it was, she had always said, ‘soothing’. An odd thing for her to say, everybody knowing that Marion was little inclined to speak of comforts of that kind. Yet she had that ability – common to those who had taken an interest in art at Swiss finishing schools – to look at paintings as if looking into a deep and imperturbable pond, a pond as calm as a mirror.
It was the nicest landing, and the painting was a Bonnard: Preparation for Girl in a Bath. The painting was lit from above by a tiny strip-light in a brass fixture. Marion looked at the painting every morning and every morning she felt, having such a thing to look on, that she had survived something immense, as if the painting on the wall was a godsend, a perfect sign of what she’d achieved, of what she deserved, a quiet marker of the person she’d become.
Underneath the picture was a rosewood table; it had a single drawer, and inside the drawer was a piece of paper covered in words Marion had written down from an exhibition catalogue. ‘The painter should devote himself entirely to the study of nature,’ it said, ‘and endeavour to produce pictures that are an education.’
She looked at the Bonnard and smiled. ‘Golly,’ she said out loud, ‘I’m parched.’
Maria Tambini was sitting at the round breakfast table when Marion came into the kitchen. A smell of smoked fish was lingering. ‘Hello, my dear,’ said Marion. ‘How do we feel this morning?’
‘Okay,’ said Maria, tapping her fingers on the leafy placemat, humming a tune.
‘Good, good,’ said Marion. ‘It was jolly cold last night, didn’t you think? Perishing. I sent Mr Gaskell down to put the heating back on. I don’t make a habit of all-night heating – bad for the skin – but last night we just had to make an exception.’
Maria found she often wasn’t sure what to say in front of Mrs Gaskell, who was very nice and friendly but seemed to be in charge of everything, including what should be talked about and when. It had been nearly two months since Maria came to London. Uncle Alfredo stayed until just after Christmas, then he went back to Rothesay. Mr and Mrs Gaskell and Maria waved him off at the bus station, and Maria was so excited about London by then that she didn’t really notice how sad Alfredo’s face was at the window when the bus moved off.
‘Another big day, my dear,’ said Marion. ‘It’s so exciting – there are people queuing up to have a word with us, but I told the office, just the main ones, I don’t want you feeling exhausted for tonight.’
‘The people are nice,’ said Maria.
‘Not as nice as you think,’ said Marion. ‘I could tell you a few stories my dear. But listen …’
‘See one of them asked me if I had a boyfriend?’
‘The Mirror. Such a ghastly
little man. You’re thirteen years old. Oh, these hacks. Some of them are just appalling.’
‘I like most of them,’ said Maria. ‘Do I have to take my jotters today?’
‘Yes, what a bore. We’ve got to squeeze in a few hours of homework. I don’t know how we’ll manage that. I wish they would understand. You’ve got such a busy schedule now. We can do it in the car. Not to worry: I spoke to my friend Mrs Enterkine, the lady at Italia Conti, and they’ll be ready to take you in two weeks. All right? What a blessing. She knows you need to work on your dancing. It’s all still too sluggish, dear, but good, good, we’re getting ahead slowly but surely. Rehearsals at three.’
Just then a sound of scratching came from the patio doors. ‘Oh, sweet, sweet,’ said Marion, walking over and turning the key. ‘Yes, my babies, hello. Hello. My liddle scruffy ones. Sit. Sit. Oh, how are you today my silly sausages? Yeeees. Silly liddle things. Down. No, down. Handsome. You are. Yes you are. Sit. My liddle friends. Yeeees. Is it treatsie time?’
‘Mr Green and the men are nice all the time, aren’t they?’ said Maria.
‘And so they should be. That’s their job,’ said Marion, rooting in a basket of dog leads and litter-bags. ‘If they’re doing their job efficiently then everybody feels better.’
‘Lights are so hot though.’
‘I’ll talk to Sid about a fan. It is certainly very hot in that studio.’ Marion had bent down and was feeding the dogs a treat while nuzzling between the two heads. She looked over at Maria. ‘You’re already a big star, dear,’ she said. ‘Do you know that? Six weeks in a row. You’re the biggest star to come out of that show.’ Maria smiled, shrugged, and turned in her chair.
‘Am I really?’
‘No question,’ said Marion. ‘And what’s more you are going to get bigger. The record’s coming out soon, and Woolworths have been on to the office – they want you to tour the shops, and there is advertising work, and there was a call from Butlins in Skegness. The Basil Brush Show want you as a guest
‘Basil Brush!’
‘Oh yes. And they’re talking about Morecambe and Wise. Foreign people have rung the office too. People in South Africa want to see you and the BBC want to discuss things. Don’t you bother your head about them. I’ll talk to Alfredo when we decide, but golly, isn’t it exciting, Maria? Lew Grade says you’re the new Shirley Temple.’
‘Africa,’ said Maria.
‘But I said, Shirley Temple my foot. She never had a voice like you have, my dear. And you’re much more mature for your age if I say so myself.’
‘Thank you,’ said Maria. ‘Mrs Gaskell? Is it all right if I phone my mum? I want to tell them all the new stuff. She said the last time they were all watching on the island. Is it all right?’
‘Of course, my dear. Absolutely. We’ll call them from the dressing room when things are less hectic.’
‘Have I got a new dress to wear tonight?’
‘Sandra’s found a lovely outfit. Last week’s was too much of a costume. This week you’re going to look pretty. Sandra’s found you a lovely gown.’
‘What’s a gown?’
‘A lovely dress. Now hurry along. Oh how yummy. Mr Gaskell’s made kedgeree. What a sweet man.’
Marion lifted a wooden spoon and scooped some food from the pan onto a plate taken down from the rack. ‘Now eat up quickly, my dear, we’ve got to get ahead,’ she said.
*
There were no traffic lights on Bute. On the bus coming down from Glasgow, the lights outside kept Maria awake. The bus was dark, not everyone slept; up the back there were men smoking and drinking from cans, arid a young man with a tartan duffel bag sat across from Maria reading a book. In the middle of the night the bus stopped at a service station and Alfredo woke up and asked her if she needed the toilet. When she said no, he tucked his jacket under his head and went back to sleep.
The man with the book had looked over. ‘Are you going on your holidays?’ he asked. Maria blushed.
‘No.’
‘Are you shy?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever been to London before?’
‘No.’
‘Well, have a nice time.’
Maria smiled. ‘You have a nice time too,’ she said. And soon the man was sleeping on his duffel bag and the bus was moving very fast down the motorway and it seemed as if the whole bus was sleeping now. Outside the window, when she looked into the distance where all the thousands of orange lights were, she felt the whole world must be asleep. She saw a sign that said ‘Birmingham’. Lorries and lorries. You could see houses and flats for miles; they were all muddled up with the orange lights, and she wondered what happened in the streets out there, in the houses, in the rooms. I am the only person awake tonight, she thought.
When she woke up it was cold and the signs said ‘Finchley’ and ‘Swiss Cottage’. The light was very white outside and people were sweeping the streets. She looked at the millions of shops and tall houses and felt hungry all of a sudden. At King’s Cross they got off the bus under a big clock-tower and took their cases and went to a café nearby where they served drinks in giant mugs. Maria blew on her tea and laughed at the faces Alfredo was making. They were in such a good mood to be in London with all the sleepy people in the café and the noise outside which seemed to grow every minute. She was amazed: some of the men in the café were totally black.
The bus had got in so early and it was so cold outside that they stayed in the café for two hours. The lady didn’t mind, so they kept ordering more biscuits and tea. Maria held her uncle’s thumbs across the table and they laughed out loud to be in London, and grinned quietly, a bit shy the two of them, when Alfredo ordered rolls and sausage and the lady brought sausage-rolls. When he went out to find a phone box to ring Mrs Gaskell, Maria at the table squeezed her elbows into her chest and felt nice. London was like a dream in the daylight. Waiting for Alfredo she put some salt on the end of her finger and pressed it into the tip of her tongue.
*
Les Dawson came into the dressing room at LWT. Mrs Gaskell put down her sheaf of papers and stood up. ‘Les,’ she said.
‘Hello darling Marion,’ he said, and he pointed at her with both hands and pulled a face. ‘Come in to my arms, Maid Marion forsooth!’ They kissed each other on both cheeks and held one another by the arms. ‘I want to claim ten per cent of that back,’ he added, then kissed her on the forehead. Everybody laughed.
‘Right,’ said Les, ‘I want to see the singing sensation. The wee belter. Where is she? Where’s the singing pygmy?’ He pretended to look quickly from left to right. Everybody laughed again.
‘Hello Mr Dawson,’ said Maria. She had been sitting in front of the mirror and her face was now made up. There was a new ladylike arch to her eyebrows, and blue eye-shadow was built up from the lashes, stopping just short of the eyebrows, where white took over. Her lips looked much bigger because of the lipstick.
Mr Dawson lifted her hand slowly, bowed, and kissed it. ‘Welcome to the lovely business we call show,’ he said.
Almost immediately (and to the delight of everyone) he began talking about his years in the business. While he spoke, Maria looked at his clothes – the wide lapels of his suit, the velvet bowtie – and she grinned and laughed without really understanding. Through the smoke and the sound of laughter she heard him say he was born in a suitcase at the back of the theatre. He made a joke about being on the road so long he had tarmac rash. When he spoke of people in the business he just used their first names: Tommy, Eric and Ernie, Cilia, Petula, Mike, Michael, Dave, Danny. He used second names for some others, in a way that made you think they were his best friends: Sykes, Wisdom, Tarbuck, Forsyth. The room was filled with laughter and Mrs Gaskell beamed. ‘How’s the Grand Order of Water Rats?’ she said.
‘Wonderful, my dear. Very wonderful. I’m the King Rat as you know and it’s an honour and a privilege to take care of business. We’re just about to set off on a merry charity appeal indeed, indeed. Rehear
sing in a church hall in Lambeth this very afternoon. Not kidding you: a church hall so old the woodworm speak Latin.’
Maria held her chin up as she was supposed to. When she laughed she had learned to tilt her head and bite her bottom lip in a becoming way. In the months she had been in London she had grown into herself. Winning Opportunity Knocks for all those weeks had given her poise: she impersonated all the women she’d known, but more so the London ones, the dancers and dressers, the other performers, for whom everything involved a little piece of business – walking, holding a glass of water, laughing at an unheard joke. A great deal of this was instinctive with Maria – she always knew how to place her head, and what to do with her eyes – but that first period in London showed her how to co-ordinate everything about her appearance.
The people around her thought she had all the showbusiness virtues – she had them by heart, and, even better, she had been born with them. Everyone in the room said that to themselves and they said it to one another. She knew how to sing a song about love in a way that would break your heart. And she seemed to know all the rules: how to present herself to an audience, how to clamber up the microphone stand and disappear into a song and give it everything. She had talent. She had personality. That is what Mr Green had said. That is how he put it to the press when asked to explain his new singing sensation from Scotland.
‘I once turned up at Buckingham Palace wearing two odd shoes,’ said Les Dawson. ‘Prince Philip called me over and smiled and said in his rather debonair way, “Mr Dawson, you appear to be wearing two odd shoes.” I couldn’t resist it. “Yes indeed, sir,” I replied, “and I’ve got a pair just like them at home.’” The room erupted. Maria put her hand over her mouth and appeared quite lost in mirth. ‘Oh,’ said Dawson, looking over, ‘my sweet, stunted gladioli. Sit on my knee and tarry a while.’ At this he budged her off her stool and put his arm round her back and placed her on the edge of his lap. ‘Do you like games?’ he asked.
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