Stella

‘Sixpence, please.’

She held out her hand and Stella pretended to put money in it. It was something they had done before. She rang up sixpence and rattled the change about in the wooden till for effect.

Mrs Coverdale, ever-suspicious of youth in her shop, marched over to see what was going on. Stella quickly warned her sister. ‘Ooh, and Mam says you’re to bring home twelve black puddings for Dad’s tea.’ Sadie closed her eyes and opened them again, hoping she would be many miles away.

‘Twelve?’ said a disbelieving Mrs Coverdale as she stopped in her tracks – much to Stella’s relief.

‘No. I said two, Mrs Coverdale,’ she corrected, innocently. Mrs Coverdale squeezed a finger into her ear and shook it about.

‘I must be going deaf. Could have sworn you said twelve.’

The shop door opened and another customer stepped inside. She moved to serve her and both Sadie and Stella dropped their shoulders with relief.

Stella found a public phone and rang up Ronnie Brookfield, confirming that they would be in attendance at the first rehearsal on the fifth of December. She had found it easy to convince her sister that eight weeks away from Tommy was not the end of the world. ‘Think of all that money you will be able to save towards a wedding dress,’ she’d remarked glibly, not expecting a ‘that’s true’ reply.

Jack Ravenscroft had also been easy to convince. He’d considered the extra few bob that they would pull in for them during their absence. With a big, hearty smile, he’d then given his decision. ‘Of course you can go, my darlings. Why, I couldn’t think of anything better for you.’

Lilly Ravenscroft had muttered under her breath about the dangers of ill-doings that went on in the south, but no one was paying her much attention on the matter by now.

Stella and Sadie Raven – Sadie, in all honesty, a little reluctantly so – were now in showbusiness proper.

Chapter Four

It was last-night party time in Portsmouth and, as was the custom with end-of-run parties, it was held three nights in advance of the last show.

The ‘binge’ was set to start half an hour after final curtain. This would give the cast time for a quick breather and the caterers an opportunity for the auditorium to clear before setting up the tables and bar on the stage. It wasn’t unusual to have the party on the stage: it gave the cast a chance to mix together and discard any ‘us and them’ attitudes that may have hitherto existed.

When the party was in full swing one of the stage-lads nodded at the empty auditorium and said to the lighting man, ‘The theatre seems fuller than normal.’ His comment reflected what kind of season it had been.

Stella and Sadie were sitting on two stools, the sort used by ventriloquists for their act, when Billy Clay and his side-kick assistant, Doug Lambourne, glided over. ‘Here we go,’ sighed Stella, and she took a firmer grasp on her bottle of ginger beer, holding it menacingly on her lap.

Sadie, being Sadie, gave him a courteous smile and took a large bite out of one of the four sausage rolls she had taken from the service table. Her appetite was as enormous as when she was small – and, much to Stella’s envy, she had never put on so much as an extra pound in weight. ‘Ouch, it’s hot,’ cried Sadie.

‘So am I,’ remarked Billy, ‘and you don’t need to pick me off the service table.’

Stella glowered at him but he wasn’t looking at her. He had learnt she was the tough one of the two – of the whole show, most probably – and so kept clear of her. ‘You’ll need picking up off the floor if you carry on irritating my sister any more,’ she warned, sternly.

Billy chuckled but he soon stopped. His wife appeared at the side of the stage. He hadn’t been expecting her to show up. He hadn’t wanted her to show up.

Stella noted his rapid change of expression and glanced across her shoulder to see what could have caused it. ‘Oh, how romantic,’ she gloated. ‘You and the missus together for a fun-filled evening.’ Billy sneered at her and, muttering one or two obscenities, he went to greet her. Lambourne dutifully – and silently – followed him.

‘Thank God they’ve gone,’ sighed Sadie as she planted a rock cake in her mouth, shortly followed by two hard-boiled eggs.

Stella was about to remark on Sadie’s digestive system when she stood up and fetched herself two lamb chops. She bought her sister another ginger beer. ‘Home on Sunday,’ she mused as the last of the food went down.

‘Yes. You’ll probably be glad to get back to a good meal.’

‘Yes, I will.’ Sadie didn’t catch on to the sarcasm. Then she said, ‘You don’t mind me not coming with you to London, like? That I will be going home and you’ll be hunting for work?’

‘Of course not, pet. But just be sure to tell our Mam and Dad that I am working for the two of us and not just for myself.’ Then she added, ‘There are times I believe she thinks I’m on the game, you know.’ Sadie laughed at that.

‘Oh dear,’ she suddenly sighed.

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s the Sheriff of Nottingham,’ she explained. ‘He’s hogged the last custard pie.’

‘Well, I’m sure you won’t starve. Now tell me what the time is.’

Sadie checked her rolled gold Samuel’s watch that Tommy had given to her as a special going-away present. ‘Half past six,’ she said.

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘That’s what it says.’

Stella glanced at it. ‘When you see Tommy again tell him from me to buy you a watch with the works in it next time.’

There was a sharp cough and an announcement was made: dancing beginning in ten minutes.

‘Come on, Sade,’ said her sister. ‘Unless, that is, you want me as a dance-partner?’ Sadie firmly shook her head, and they made their way to the dressing-room.

The doorman strutted across the stage with a gramo-phone and promptly tripped over as the lights were dimmed for atmosphere.

For two minutes it was chaos. A long, loud, girlish giggle was heard coming from somewhere in the stalls, followed by a long, loud, girlish scream from the same place. ‘Drinking is bad for you,’ warned Stella with a smile. ‘But what follows is worse.’

The pantomime finished with a dull thud. Portsmouth was left and forgotten by the artistes, and the artistes that left were forgotten by Portsmouth. It hadn’t been a very happy show, and from the management’s point of view it hadn’t been a successful one either. Profits had been made but not fortunes. Managements were not content with just making profits, they wanted fortunes, each and every time. As for the artistes themselves, whenever asked where they played last Christmas, they would invariably reply, ‘Somewhere on the south coast.’ Portsmouth was not a name to mention.

On the Saturday, the actual last night of the pantomime, Stella was called to the phone. It was Ronnie Brookfield. Apparently, an act had dropped out at the Palace, Grimsby, and could they replace them? Money would be the same as they were getting for the pantomime and third-class fares would be paid for one way only. He needed an answer then and there, and, of course, Stella was quite incapable of turning down any work.

She dashed back to the dressing-room to tell her sister the good news, and perhaps, not surprisingly, it was met with much apathy. Sadie was more excited about meeting up with Tommy. ‘Okay, then,’ she said, finally surrendering to her insistent sister. And Stella made her the promise that all showbusiness is run on.

‘We’re just filling in for the week.’

Mrs Fisher brought into the warm, compact front room of her home five desserts on a tray: four prunes and custards and one prunes without custard because Billy Manners didn’t like custard.

Stella and Sadie cleared away the dinner plates and stacked them haphazardly on the sideboard for Mrs Fisher. It was eleven p.m. and these were the best digs in Grimsby; clean, warm, and the food was excellent if you were used to mediocre food.

The furniture was in a class of its own – instant depression. The sideboard looked like a coffin with drawers and could have been the one used to ship the body of Count Dracula into the country.

Sat around a highly polished wooden table, I don’t think the story has got to 1934 yet, were Stella, Sadie, and Billy Manners – a new, young comedian with an American style to his act. He was full of one-liners, smart comments, and a smart suit to match. His idea was that you don’t have to look funny to be funny. His jokes were sharp, much too sharp for Grimsby – that only served to dull his razor wit. The other couple at the table were Grace and Karl Kent, a husband-and-wife team. She sang and played the harp while he drank and played around. Their act was like their earnings – on the way down. What had once been a salary was now a wage.

Sadie looked at her prunes and said, ‘Sailor!’ The others looked up. ‘According to my prunes I’m going to marry a sailor,’ she explained to the questioning faces.

Billy said, ‘According to mine there’s going to be a queue for the bathroom tomorrow.’ Grace Kent pulled a suitable face to show her disdain.

‘I’m going to marry a rich man,’ said Stella, ‘because Mrs Fisher gave me five prunes to your four.’

‘Looks like you’ll be first in the bathroom then, Stella,’ grinned Billy.