by Cecil Beaton
‘Thank God!’ says one of the men as he flings his helmet on a bench. ‘But they’re bastards. Don’t know how they do it. We fly so high that it takes their “flak” a minute and a half to reach us, yet by the time we’ve travelled a mile and a half on anything but a straight course, there’s the stuff waiting to meet you! And doesn’t it just bump you about when it hits you!’
The CO moves among them. He learns that the squadrons hopped over clouds on their way out, and, instead of having to come down low on to their target, the clouds had parted to show the way for the bomb-aimers.
The CO hides his relief, and casually asks, ‘Any news of B for Bobby, or D for Donald?’
‘No, sir.’
The crews are now wolfing sandwiches and meekly saying ‘thank you’ for the thickly sugared milk and coffee from the urn.
A gaunt, ghostlike youth tumbles in, his face of a grey pallor.
‘Feugh! I’ve never sweated so much in one night! For sheer sweat this trip takes the cake! I thought those photographs that you took of us, Beaton, were going to be our memorial. Jerry got us in a cone of lights, and did he jib us about, eh? I certainly thought it was our last “ops” — the worst I’ve had yet!’
The flight sergeant returns, ‘B for Bobby just down, sir,’ and before long Bobby Tring strolls in, still very erect, but with the look in his eyes even wilder. He wears his peaked cap on the back of his curly head and smokes nervously.
Soon the formal interrogation has started. The epic legends of the night are pieced together. At one table they discuss the fighter opposition met on the raid, and how L for London had pinpointed a factory with a load of incendiaries. A senior intelligence officer points with a pencil to the map in front of him. ‘And here, how was the “flak”?’
Bobby, leaning on the palm of his hand, with wrinkled forehead, mumbles, ‘Pretty bad, sir, really pretty bad.’
The older man wrinkles his forehead in sympathy and nods. ‘Still here,’ he said, again pointing. ‘Over Holland at this point it would be fairly quiet, wouldn’t it?’
‘Oh, no, sir!’ affirms Baker, the second pilot, and the others join in. ‘Not a bit of it, regular Fifth of November firework display.’
‘Hm! And there — did you make that target?’
‘Yes, sir; we had to make a second run though. But I think we can be certain of it,’ says Bobby, drawing deep on his cigarette.
‘Oh, yes! We got that all right,’ corroborates the rear-gunner in his Lancashire accent. ‘Yes, sir, we got that one — and what a flame that dump made!’
Again the CO turns to a corporal. ‘Any news of D for Donald? — must be getting short of petrol now.’
‘Nothing’s come in yet, sir.’
At another table a group is arguing about the colour of the ‘flak’ at Gelsenkirchen. ‘It was red, definitely.’
‘No, I’d say pink.’
‘Absolute rot! It was orange with a white centre.’
‘Aw! You mean pink with green spots.’
At yet another table a Canadian youth, with long curling eyelashes, is refuting some point with determination, ‘Now, let me show you what happened.’ The others fit in around him respectfully as he prods the map. He is doing a tough man’s job with a stout heart, though he looks as if he should still be at prep school. Certainly he should be abed long before this; for, unnoticed, the dawn has crept up outside the blackout blinds. Time, at long last, for breakfast and that well-deserved egg which, they say, tastes like none other.
So these young, but quickly ageing, men sit at the breakfast table, politely conversing with the CO and with one another. Bobby Tring cuts the rind off the bacon that accompanies the egg, carefully prepares his next mouthful, and pauses with it poised at the end of a fork, while the blue-eyed tennis player with frayed collar puts up a silencing finger, ‘There’s our friend the cuckoo!’ Turning to me, he says, ‘We often hear the cuckoo when we’re going out on “ops”, and then again when we get into bed.’
‘Well, you’d better be getting along now,’ the CO suggests.
‘Right-ho, sir, I was just thinking the same — good night, sir,’ says the tennis type, drawing back his chair.
‘Good night, Bobby — and now I must set about my day’s work; there’s a lot to be done.’
‘But,’ I ask, ‘you haven’t had any sleep, have you?’
‘Oh, I’ll be all right after a hot bath.’
‘But a hot bath! I know it’s very pleasant,’ I suggest — ‘but without any sleep whatsoever?’
‘Oh! I mean a really hot bath,’ the CO smiles, ‘one that wakes you up good and proper. Well, I must be sending in my reports. Too bad about D for Donald, but the raid has been successful.’ Now everyone is too tired to think, to worry, or to hurry — even to hurry to bed.
Lying on a hard metal bed, under a coarse, wiry blanket, I watch the flashes of different coloured lights against the frosted window, listen to the footsteps along the corridor, hear the sounds of laughter, and I wonder what is the secret which sustains these men in a life of perpetual sacrifice, of successive risks, the probable end of which is calmly discerned by their clear and disillusioned eyes. Do they go out in the faith that the world will be a better place because of their sacrifice? Do they see their own eternity beyond the death of the body? I doubt if either of these conceptions consciously actuates most of them. Like the Roman soldier of long ago their ‘dark sense’ of discipline and duty takes the place of religion. Who can say that it is not religion?
Part VI: Acquaintance, 1941-2
OLGA LYNN AND LILY ELSIE
Summer 1941
Olga Lynn,[21] evacuated from the bombing of Belgravia to the overcrowded purlieus of Windsor, has often suggested arranging a lunch in order to talk over les temps perdus with the old musical comedy favourites Lily Elsie, Gertie Millar and Zena Dare. Now that people are dispersed far and wide such a meeting would be improbable. But, quite by chance, Oggie met Lily Elsie on the platform of Windsor Station and discovered that she was also living close by. So a Sunday was set aside for the three of us to meet.
As I took the train to Windsor, I was beaming with anticipation, for I found that I still received the same elation at the prospect of seeing Lily Elsie that I would have had all those years ago when this goddess wrapped the whole of my adolescence in a haze of roses.
As a child of not more than three I was lying in my mother’s bed — an early morning treat — while she breakfasted and opened her letters. There, one morning, on the eiderdown, lay a picture postcard of the most beautiful lady that I had ever seen in the whole of my life. Wearing her hair in a mass of Greek curls adorned with a diamond fillet she thrust forward a flawless profile. Her lips and cheeks were tinted, her diamond necklace and décolletage were spangled. Thus was I first conscious of Miss Lily Elsie.
My flamboyant Aunt Jessie spoilt me outrageously and I loved her for it. It was she who a few months later took me to a children’s party at the Carlton Hotel. The floor of the large circular hall was covered with a stretched canvas which was liberally sprinkled with imitation hoar-frost. I was frantically scooping up iridescent crystals with an opal and silver trowel (which I had just won in a raffle) when a smiling lady in furs was presented to me. Immediately I made my Uncle Percy, Aunt Jessie’s Bolivian husband, buy the lady a huge bunch of Parma violets — for she was none other than my goddess of the picture postcard.
I was four years of age when my father considered that I was old enough to go to my first matinée. Having bought dress circle seats for The Merry Widow he returned from his office for an early lunch prior to setting off for Daly’s theatre. But he brought bad news. ‘Owing to indisposition’ Miss Elsie would not be appearing. Would I prefer to wait for a later performance or would I be content to see the understudy? Over-excitement had caused me already to bite my finger-nails to the quick. How could I brook further delay?
As it happened, all I remembered afterwards of the euphoric afternoon was the astounding surpris
e of seeing a lady at Maxim’s dance on a table top. However, Lily Elsie became a household name, and after Aunt Jessie and Uncle Percy chaperoned her on a trip to Biarritz they invited her to lunch. The smell of melon and cigars struck my nostrils as, with my brother Reggie, I was allowed in the dining-room, at the end of the meal to perform our version of The Merry Widow waltz in front of its originator.
Today I went off as a man who has seen most of the living beauties of the world, and I had complete confidence that I should not be disappointed with my first favourite.
It was high summer; the day was one that one dreams of — blinding sun and roses spilling in profusion. It was arranged that we should have luncheon by the riverside at that Wren house which has recently been turned into an hotel.
Oggie, Jack Gordon, the fourth of our party, and I waited on the terrace watching the boats glide up and down the river as they did when the Thames was fashionable at the time of our heroine’s hey-day. The rambler roses tumbled over the wire umbrellas as they do in a musical comedy. Only our leading lady was late. Oggie became nervous that our guest might have forgotten the rendezvous. We passed the time working up an electric atmosphere for the star’s arrival.
‘Now, let me see — she was the “Merry Widow” in about 1907 — she married Ian Bullough before the war, at twenty-five — she must be over fifty now.’ Brought up in Salford she was said to be the illegitimate child of Lord ... and his cook. Her mother boasted a strong Manchester accent, but Elsie with her natural elegance, the antithesis of the archness of the actresses previously in favour, was said to have brought a new, contemporary grace to the role of leading lady. To see her merely walk across the stage was a poem. Not a man, woman or child was to be found who did not fall for her charm. One elderly gentleman — a distant admirer — sent her a duplicate of her stage jewellery — only in real diamonds. She had always retained a certain mystery and even those fortunate to know her off-stage found her slightly elusive with this unattainable quality that was utterly romantic.
Windsor clocks chimed the half after 1 o’clock and still no Lily Elsie. Oggie was frantic. Jack was sent as outrider to convey the missing guest to our meeting-place. Moments later, the doorway to the terrace held two figures. From a distance of thirty feet one still felt electrified by the aura surrounding this lady who ‘filled’ with her presence the door through which she came. Without being ‘stagey’, she ‘made an entrance’. Tall, slim, spruce, she hovered, turned to ask a question, fumbled a little, and then walked towards us with the familiar straight-backed, loose-legged, slightly coltish walk. Yes, here walked beauty. Or was I confusing a period-prettiness with the real thing? Was my critical judgement being led astray by sentimental associations and prejudice? A shady hat and dark spectacles hid the eyes so that now, at last without competition, her nose and mouth could be seen in their unchallenged beauty. I realized, for the first time, how important an attribute to her charm is the way that she moves the lips in speech. They are thrust forward into a sort of open pout which reveals the slightly receding teeth yet still retain their smooth, shiny cherry-surface. Certainly these features are not those that one finds in the greatest paintings, though there is an affinity in the roundness of early Botticelli. They are more the features that one sees in Boucher, Greuze, or, alas, Burne Jones, who would have exaggerated the fullness of the lips and the ivory bosses of the nostrils. To be hyper-analytical, the shape of the face is a little too round, and there are planes of the cheek and jaw in three-quarter view that are slightly coarse; but on the stage, and in photography, this is a positive advantage. The complexion is of a flawless veal-white quality even today, and the hair, curled in the shapes of the current fashion, though it has become streaked with white, gives the effect of being fair. Although Lily Elsie does not do so with a definite effort, she retains her youthful quality.
I was able, thanks to my own dark glasses, to stare concentratedly at the lady opposite without her being conscious of such intense scrutiny. In the half-light, caused by the shade of her hat, I peered at the same features that I had pored over in a dark snapshot taken at an Edwardian garden party, or on a seaside hotel terrace, (‘enjoying a well-earned rest’ read the caption) nearly a half-century ago. I think my blood tingled as I recognized the curve of the arm inside the elbow — a curve I had drawn many hundreds of times from those shiny Beagles postcards. I corroborated that the elbows protrude at a strangely gauche angle, and her thumbs have never been expressive.
The past came surging back over me like a torrent. It was an uncanny experience to realize, of a sudden, how well I knew this face. How little I had forgotten from childhood! I remembered, with a shock of familiarity, that little lump hidden in the crevice by the left nostril, and the small dewlap that falls from the centre of the sensuous upper lip. For me it had once seemed the heart of a rose and the centre of the universe! Still after the intervening years, after coming to admire Piero, Greco and Blake, the Diaghileff Ballet, Paris, New York and Hollywood, here was something that compared favourably with all that I had subsequently learnt to think of as beauty.
And what would Lily Elsie prove to be as a person? A trifle genteel? A bit too ladylike? Even a bore? I had not really feared this, for artists of a certain calibre can be counted upon always to strike the right note. From the moment she joined us she made the atmosphere easy and cosy, proved herself instinctively bright and amusing with her way of picking certain words out of sentences and making fun of them. She laughed with a deepchested relish.
As we sat having our skimpy war-time lunch (hors-d’oeuvres with diced beetroot but with no sardines) on a Windsor terrace in 1941, I was being transported to the realm of my first stage inspiration that was still, perhaps, more real today than the nightmares that engulf us all.
Oggie, bright and bursting with vitality, helped by giving confidence to our guest and encouraging her to reminisce. Lily Elsie talked about the experience that led to her taking the part of the Merry Widow. Elsie Cotton had gone on the stage as a child impersonator known as Little Elsie, later she toured the provinces before coming to Daly’s as a chorus girl. George Edwardes, the manager, or ‘the Guv’nor’ as he was called, dropped in unexpectedly at a matinée, saw Elsie throw a balloon at the audience, so gave her notice for insubordination. Some time later, meeting her in the street and hearing that she was still out of a job, he took her back to play small parts. When she appeared in a Chinese musical, having been impressed by an oriental Tree production, she wore a strange wig and slanting eyes. Her appearance created a stir, for in musical comedy nobody bothered about realism. When Edwardes found his Daly theatre unexpectedly empty, and wanted to find a leading lady quickly for his stop gap, The Merry Widow, he took Little Elsie to Berlin to see the German version. They arrived just in time to have high tea before going to the theatre. The leading actress was huge, fat, and sang the part with tremendous operatic gusto. Edwardes asked Lily Elsie if she would play Sonia in London.
‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly.’ Lily Elsie was always shy and unsure of herself. She considered herself too thin, too ineffectual, and her small voice was never properly trained. Edwardes and Elsie returned, somewhat crestfallen, to London. But the Guv’nor, search as he did, could find no one else for the role, and the production had to go into immediate rehearsal. He eventually cajoled Elsie into becoming his Sonia, and by accepting, she made history in the English theatre.
Yes, she enjoyed arriving at the stagedoor and putting on the grease-paint, but she could not understand that overnight she had become a living legend. She had never understood, nor was fully conscious of, the effect she created, or the success she enjoyed. She remained exceptionally shy and only occasionally did she go out in public: an exception was made on the Sunday after her ‘Widow’ opening when she was prevailed upon to make an appearance among the fashionable crowd on the river. She bought a dress for twelve pounds and a vast mob cap of blue and white broderie anglaise from Swears and Wells and went off by train to Henley. After a
long day in the miasmas of the Thames, the hat flopped, the brim fell low over her face, and when, at last, she returned home, the turkey carpet covering of the train-seat had left a large, indelible red patch on the dress.
‘Once the Guv’nor realized that the “Widow” was a success, he ordered a new set of clothes for me from Lucille. Everything she made was a work of art. After that I couldn’t go to anyone else. But I never understood why that black hat I wore in the last act was such a sensation. It arrived from Paris a few days before we opened. It had a few black wisps of paradise on it; it wasn’t particularly large, but it created the craze for huge hats. It became the Merry Widow hat.’
‘And what about the blue osprey hat you wore in The Count of Luxembourg? Weren’t you very pleased with that?’
‘I always thought it a common hat. It was badly made by Gracie Ansell. I never liked it, but I thought it would look well on the stage.’
Elsie told how she and Gabrielle Ray had contracts to be photographed exclusively for picture postcard sales by Foulsham and Banfield once every month, how artificial light was never used but they were taken in a ‘sort of conservatory’. Gab Ray was the bright one: she always insisted on marking the proofs herself for the alterations, and she arranged to be paid £400 a year for posing whereas Elsie had signed too soon and only received £100 a year. Our guest talked of Gabrielle Ray being a great perfectionist in her work and in her appearance, rehearsing her dances forever, and experimenting with strange new make-ups, putting them together like a Pointilliste artist, with dabs of all sorts of different colours — mauves, greens and reds — which created in the distance a strange luminosity. She told also, of Gab being spoilt, moody and always so jealous of Elsie that it was painful when the two of them were staying together in the country and were riding or playing tennis.
Lily Elsie told us how the four remaining years of her stage career following the ‘Widow’ had gone by as if she were in an incubator of unreality. It was only on the stage that she became less painfully shy. Invitations came to her from the greatest in the land but she never accepted them. She had never been brought up to answer letters, and she was hopelessly casual, although she had never realized she was so. Many distinguished people had sent her interesting letters, but nothing of her past had been kept except a few picture postcards.