Stella. Gary Morecambe
wayward daughter, as they began to refer to her. It just said that she had arrived safe and soundly, and that the weather was no different to that in Lancaster. She sent her love to them all and put a PS, saying that Mr and Mrs Gosling, the people she was staying with, send their very best, and a PPS, saying that ‘Streatham is really quite lovely.’
The postcard became another ornament for the Raven-scroft mantle-shelf.
Ronnie Brookfield’s tiny office at the back of Charing Cross Road was as drab and dirty as he was. The only promise of work came through such expressions as ‘As soon as I can fix anything for you, I will’ and ‘Believe me, you will be the first to know’, and ‘Is your sister as pretty as you?’
To her surprise, he also asked her if she minded doing stag parties. He produced a pen from his cheap-looking, badly stained blazer. ‘What, no phone number? Er – Oh well, no matter. I’ll be in touch by post. Goodbye, Miss Ravel, er, Miss Raymond, er, Miss Raven.’
She went round at least another half a dozen more agents, some quite prominent, others as dubious as Mr Brookfield’s outfit. More promises were made and more time seemingly wasted. Her money was running short. It was time to vacate the ‘Big City’ and return to the smaller one of Lancaster, hoping that the fare and various other expenses hadn’t proved to be money down the drain.
She’d been home six weeks. Her letter was still on the mantle-shelf and just beside it was the postcard. Both were memories of London, but what worried her more was that both were rapidly becoming memories of a career that seemed destined not to happen.
At about this time Corkell’s Yard received another rare visit from the postman. This time he delivered a larger envelope than before. ‘Telegram for Miss Raven,’ he announced, pushing it into Mrs Ravenscroft’s hand. Her head was swimming with excitement as she signed her name in full: Lilly Elizabeth Ravenscroft.
She could sense the neighbours peering at her from behind closed curtains. Stella hurriedly made some tea, allowed it to brew for only a moment, and then poured it out for both of them. As she finally reached for the telegram her mother said, ‘Let’s have a biscuit.’
Stella went to the tiny pantry and returned with a tin with Peak Frean stamped on it. The Peak Frean biscuits had long since been eaten and the tin had been purchased some years ago. It now contained a lower vintage of biscuit but good enough for them to dunk in their tea. ‘Read it out,’ said her mother, with crumbs all over her lips.
Stella opened it and read: ‘Miss Stella Raven, Corkell’s Yard, Penny Street, Lancaster, Lancs.’ Her mother nodded a few times, as if giving her approval. ‘Can fix you Babes rehearsals Dec Five Six weeks see below own fares Theatre Royal Portsmouth Phone Affirmative Brooksie.’
Her mother waited some moments before asking, ‘Is that showbusiness talk?’ Stella shakily reached for her tea and sat down. ‘Well, come on. Explain it all to me. Remember, we’re just plain simple folk up this way.’ That was a gentle dig – a small attempt at revenge – for the comments she’d made about them some weeks ago.
‘What it means is, Babes in the Wood pantomime rehearsals, starting December fifth with a six-week run for ten pounds a week between Sadie and me. We have to settle our own fares and I must phone them right away if the answer’s yes.’
‘Where’s it say all that?’ asked her bewildered mother, turning the telegram over and over in her hands as if the missing words would magically fall out onto her lap.
‘A telegram’s like code, Mam. They do it that way ’cos it’s cheaper.’ As she spoke her mind was already way ahead of her, carefully planning what sort of digs she would be looking for and how much she would be able to spend whilst in Portsmouth.
‘I see,’ said her mother. ‘Well, be a good girl and put telegram on mantle-shelf for your dad to see when he’s back from work.’
She sat back, looking at the three pieces of correspond-ence and sighed. ‘My, we’ll soon be needing a longer mantle.’
‘Ten pound a week’s not a bad starter in the big time, is it, Mam?’ She felt she mustn’t let her change the subject until she had been given a definite go-ahead. She couldn’t keep Brooksie waiting. She had to phone him before her dad was back from work or it might be too late.
‘Hmmm. But you’ve got to split it with Sadie. That makes a big difference doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, Mam, but five pounds a week is twice as much as Dad gets.’
Before she’d finished the sentence she knew that she had made a grave mistake.
‘Two pounds five your dad gets, and he has to work hard for it, not singing and dancing about the place, but solid hard work. Your dad’s got a good name. Everybody says what a good worker he is, everybody says that.’ Her cheeks were crimson with anger, though Stella wasn’t sure whether it was because she had insulted his name or because her mother wished he could earn as much as five pounds a week. Either way, she appeared to calm as easily as she had flared. ‘How much will the railway be?’
‘About twenty-five bob return, third class. Then Sadie will be able to earn more than she can in the cake shop.’
‘A guinea a week she earns,’ established her mother with a pointing, almost threatening, finger. ‘Our Sadie’s like Dad. She’s a good worker. Why, only just the other day I went into the cake shop for a penneth of broken biscuits and Mrs Coverdale, she’s manageress there, said, “Hello Mrs Ravenscroft. What a good worker your Sadie is . . .”’
Stella wondered if it would be best to hunt out good digs that cost more or bad digs and so save more.
‘“. . . I’ve never known any girl work as hard as your Sadie.”’ Her mother nodded at least five times as if to say, there now, so no more argument. Stella wasn’t arguing.
Stella’s mind returned from Portsmouth. ‘Yes, okay, Mam.’ She had stopped listening after ‘A guinea a week she earns . . .’ ‘I’m off to see Sadie to tell her to give up her job at the cake shop, come home and get packing, ready for our long journey down to the wicked south.’
‘You’ll have your dad to see about all this, and don’t think I’m going to stick up for you either.’
‘Going to Portsmouth is no worse than going to London, Mam. And going to London isn’t like going to Hell. You can always come back from London.’
‘Watch that language. You’ve been there once and look at the swear-words you’ve picked up.’
‘Goodbye, Mam. See yer . . .’
She was out of the house before her mother could say ‘Jack Ravenscroft’. She fell into the cake shop and saw Sadie serving Mrs Pritchard three coconut macaroons. ‘That’ll be fourpence, Mrs P.’
‘How much?’ challenged her customer.
‘Ooh, sorry, Mrs P. Er, threepence please.’ Out the corner of her eye she could see Stella doing an uncanny mime of Mrs Pritchard quibbling over the price. She had to stop looking at Stella to prevent herself from breaking up into laughter, which she was prone to do at the least amusing comment or action her sister made.
Mrs Pritchard checked her change and, with a groan and a frown, turned and stomped out of the shop, not even acknowledging Stella’s presence. The bell above the door rang and she slammed the door shut. ‘What are you doing, visiting me here during hours?’ whispered Sadie with a mixture of concern and excitement. Stella related the story about the telegram and her subsequent discussion with her mother. ‘Portsmouth!’ gasped Sadie. ‘That’s further than London, that is.’
‘You’re sounding like Mam did.’
‘But it’s a long way.’
She spied Mrs Coverdale coming out the back office. ‘Quickly, order something or I’ll be for it.’
‘Yer what?’
‘Order something, quickly,’ urged