Stella. Gary Morecambe
They did very well that night. They were bright and young, and the audience were drunk enough to enjoy two young teenagers cavorting about in costumes they couldn’t envisage their wives in. They did well enough to be given a pound to split by a very drunk landlord, whose wife never forgave him.
Over the next twelve months their act blossomed like summer flowers, as did their figures. They were tall, easy movers, with natural blonde hair. Unsurprisingly, the only thing of importance to Stella was the act, and Sadie was willing to go along with this, for, as yet, she had no other interests or distractions.
Chapter Three
At weekends Tommy joined the girls at their various venues. He enjoyed helping out wherever he could. He was a strong boy, and his prominent muscles kept over-enthusiastic male admirers under control.
He was employed at the Lancil factory, making – or rather assisting in the making of – oilcloth.
He had become Sadie’s all-time favourite hero, and secretly they had shared kisses, as long as he promised to do it romantically, like in the films she had seen. Tommy went along with this. He went along with anything that kept her happy.
Towards the latter part of 1932 they were working the cream of anything that was going, even as far afield as Preston, and had twice worked Manchester.
Their post-office savings books had never looked healthier. Sadie had managed to save nearly every penny she had earned – after giving her mother an allowance. Stella had spent most of her earnings on clothing and on the act, realising that they wouldn’t progress without spending on themselves. Fashion was an important part of their song and dance act, and Stella didn’t want anyone thinking they were cheap and scruffy. Anyway, it was far easier for Sadie to save as she had kept her job going at the cake shop.
Tommy received a flat salary of five shillings every time he worked with them. It didn’t matter how large or small the date was; five shillings he received. Half of this went into his own post-office savings account, the rest he spent on treating himself.
Unlike the girls, he didn’t have to pay anything to his parents towards his keep: it had always been that way. Now and again he’d go to the market and buy in a load of vegetables as a gesture of his gratitude, and by doing it this way he guaranteed that his dad wouldn’t blow it all at the pub.
Sadie was quite content to drift through life without any changes. After all, she had never had so much money, so why should she want to change things? She thought they had become legendary figures when she saw a piece about them in the local press: ‘Stella and Sadie Raven are now household names throughout the whole of Lancaster.’ It also went on to say that Stella was renowned for her fashion sense and Sadie for her gentle personality.
One morning, during this busy period, Stella declared that she had discovered the opportunity for them to make sensational progress. She’d seen in a theatrical paper, The Stage, that there was to be a talent contest held in the north, called ‘The North-West, Go as You Please Show’.
The first prize wasn’t money – it was far better than that. If you won you were given a full week’s work at your nearest main theatre. For the girls that would mean the Winter Gardens, Morecambe.
The first instalment of the competition took place at the Alhambra Theatre, Morecambe, where they had to win the local heat. If successful, they would then go to the Hippodrome, at Ardwick Green, Manchester, for the second heat. This was followed by the semi-finals in Liverpool (no theatre confirmed as yet, due to disputes between various managements) and would conclude back in Manchester at the Palace Theatre. Stella entered them for it at once. ‘It won’t be easy for the others with us performing,’ she said confidently – maybe too confidently.
‘It’s a bit scary, though,’ said Sadie. ‘They’ll be some awful good ’uns having a go, Stella.’
She ignored Sadie’s reservations. If she took any notice of her sister they’d be permanently out of work.
On the day of the first local heat Sadie just managed to overcome a severe bout of nerves and Stella gave one of her most perfunctory performances. She’d made the classic mistake of having her mind already on the stage at the Palace, Manchester. They came second. An Irish pub tenor won the first heat, singing, ‘Mother Macrea’, followed by ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’. He was awful but – and this is the part Stella couldn’t comprehend – the public liked him. He was a short, fat man, well into his forties, who didn’t touch upon many right notes. But the public liked him. ‘Better luck to us next time,’ was Sadie’s only remark as the theatre emptied.
‘How on earth could they have liked him?’ cried Stella, gazing up at the heavens in stunned disbelief. ‘How could a garden gnome come in first? Did you see that orange doormat he wore on his head?’
‘I think that was a wig,’ said Tommy, keeping his distance as Stella was looking positively volatile.
‘Course it was a ruddy wig, which makes it all the more stupid that he won.’
‘Well, I thought he was quite good,’ said Sadie, very generously.
‘But Sadie, dear,’ she said with frustration in her emotion-filled voice: ‘if he was only “quite good”, as you say, and he went and won the thing, and we came in second, does that make us not quite as good as quite good?’ Sadie was confused. She never had understood Stella’s logic.
Tommy stood several feet away with his hands dug deep into his pockets and a look of bemusement on his pallid face. ‘I’ll bet you he won’t get past the next round,’ said Stella. ‘In Manchester they’ve seen real pros, real talent. They have four or five number-one theatres in Manchester and so they know real talent, I’ll stake my life on it.’
‘I wouldn’t want you to go as far as that,’ said Sadie, seriously.
Stella studied her sister despairingly before saying, ‘And neither one of you is to go backstage and wish that big idiot luck for the next round.’ She turned on Tommy, who had moved even further away. ‘You hear that, Tommy Moran?’
He swung round with an angelic expression upon his face. ‘What was that?’
‘You heard me.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Come on, there’s nothing here for us any more. Let’s go home and tell our folks the worst.’
Once on the tram Stella managed to calm herself considerably. ‘I’ll give him this,’ she said, preparing to offer her first piece of praise for the tenor singer: ‘He knew exactly what the audience wanted. He sang the right numbers for the occasion.’
There was a glimmer in her eyes as if she was registering her own words as she spoke them. ‘Yes, that’s the secret, isn’t it? You give them what they want; not what you want.’
‘I think that’s quite so,’ said Tommy, bravely. ‘“Live and learn” is what my old man taught me.’
‘What’s he got to do with the business?’ she said, hurtfully. Tommy cowered and stared out of the window.
‘Don’t be mean on him,’ defended Sadie. ‘It’s not Tommy’s fault.’
‘I know, I am sorry. I just can’t believe we’re out of the stupid competition.’
Within two days Stella had a plan. They would go to Preston, put their names down at the theatre there and re-enter the competition. They could use their Aunt Alice’s name and address to avoid recognition. She lived in Garston, which was nearer to Preston than Lancaster. ‘But only by about two yards,’ Tommy pointed out. She was very pleased with herself, and even more pleased when Tommy revealed that he had a relation in Preston itself, and that they could use her address.
After an awkward journey they reached Preston, did their performance using Tommy’s relation’s name and address – and came in third. They were beaten out of second place by a young man who did the worst impression of Charlie Chaplin Stella had ever seen. ‘I didn’t even realise he was supposed to be Charlie Chaplin,’ declared