Really rather surprised – and, of course, delighted – for my story to have been placed second in my Writers’ Circle Christmas Short Story Competition.
The theme was ‘Family History’. Listening to some of other stories from my fellow writers last night, it struck me that we barely need to make up stories; there is enough in our families.
I decided to write about my Grandmother (that’s her, above, around the time the story is set), and the great, “what might have been…”
WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN – A True Family History
‘Gwen! GWEN!’
Blast! She’d forgotten again.
It may have been a few years, but she could still forget that when she had first been engaged as a Pianiste/Entertainer, her producer had decided her given name was too long to fit the playbill.
‘Gwen.’ He had paused. ‘Ritchie. Gwen Ritchie,’ and Catherine Harvey was consigned to history.
She turned back to Fred, the stage-door keeper, struggling to keep his Woodbine between his lips as he juggled messages and letters.
‘Telegram for ya.’ He shoved the brown velum towards her.
She turned it over in her hands and dashed to her dressing-room. The familiar scent of mothballs, kerosene lamps and pan-sticks hit her as she entered. She navigated her way over the elegant limbs of Leonora, one of the sand dancers, warming up in an enviable version of the splits. Gwen looked at herself in the mirror, then tore open the telegram. The words swam before her eyes and she had to read them twice to believe what they said:
André Charlot requests that you attend a meeting at his offices, 141 Shaftesbury Ave, 11am, Tuesday.
André Charlot, the most respected producer of Variety revues in the country, possibly the world. And he wanted to meet her. Next Tuesday. She remembered the gossip that buzzed backstage last week, whispers that he was in their audience at the Brixton Empire, but Gwen hadn’t believed it. Rumours always flew backstage, and Gwen had learnt to take most of these with a pinch of salt, as her mother would caution.
Gwen leant back in her chair, clutching the telegram to her chest, and thought of her parents in their cottage in the Somerset village of Ilton. Her Dad, Obed, had reluctantly let his daughter take her extraordinary singing voice and piano-playing on the road. Her mother, Bess, mostly kept her thoughts about this to herself. Gwen imagined them now, Obed securing ‘the old nag’, as he called their horse, after a day hawking pots and pans. Bess would be stitching something, probably repairing clothes or linens.
Gwen shook her head. Tonight’s first performance beckoned.
As her act began, she marched onto the stage, shimmering in a bias-cut, emerald-green dress that she’d made herself. Her paste jewellery glinted in the strong stage lights and she took her place at the piano. There was always a moment of complete silence before her hands struck the keys, when she felt herself transform from gawky country girl into a performer who could hold an audience spellbound. After a few bars, she let loose her rich contralto voice, soaring to the flies high above her, then rolling across her audience like a wave on a beach. She acknowledged the applause as she took her curtain call, hurrying back to her dressing room just to check that the telegram had not been a dream.
The following Tuesday, her new astrakhan scarf tied just so around her shoulders, Gwen climbed the stairs to Mr Charlot’s office. She was sure he could hear her knees knocking together, such was her nervousness.
Once admitted to his sanctum, she stared at the playbills and posters adorning the walls. They were all shows she’d seen when she wasn’t performing, particularly his most recent, starring Gertrude Lawrence.
‘Miss Ritchie,’ he stood to offer his hand. Yet again, Gwen almost forgot her stage name, fumbling as she thrust her hand towards his.
‘I very much enjoyed your performance last week. What are your plans with the show?’
Gwen’s mouth was dry. Could she even speak? ‘We go on tour next month, Mr Charlot. Until the panto.’
‘I’m sure we can negotiate that, Mr Charlot.’
Gwen had hardly noticed the smart young woman taking notes beside him.
‘Yes, of course. Well, we have a problem. Miss Lawrence is leaving our show. She’s off to New York with Mr Coward, to open in Private Lives.’
‘How exciting!’ Gwen couldn’t imagine anything more glamorous than opening a show in New York.
‘Not for us,’ Mr Charlot seemed aggrieved. ‘We need a replacement and we would like you to consider it.’
Gwen’s heart thudded in her chest, almost drowning out her voice as she eventually found the words to thank him.
She was never quite sure how she left the room or how she made her way back to the theatre. She could only wait for Mr Charlot’s summons for her to join his Revue. He would telegram her digs, wherever she was, and Gwen smiled at the thought of being chased across the country by a producer.
Soon, her own show was on the road. Some nights, she could barely sleep as she thought of taking over from Gertrude Lawrence, such a star. She shared digs with Leonora, the sand dancer, sometimes squeezing into a small ‘double’ bed that was often wet with damp. Meals were variable, depending on the culinary skills of their landlady.
Norwich turned into Buxton, became Liverpool, then Birmingham. The weeks rolled on, and still Gwen heard nothing from Mr Charlot.
‘Telephone him.’
Gwen had kept the offer to herself, but one night she had confided in Leonora, now offering her advice.
Their show was at the Theatre Royal, Brighton. Gwen found a telephone box on the seafront. She trembled as she picked up the receiver and asked the operator to connect her with the number in London.
‘André Charlot’s office.’
The clipped tones of Mr Charlot’s assistant rang down the line. Gwen swallowed and announced herself.
‘Oh, Miss Ritchie. I’m so sorry, but as you never answered Mr Charlot’s telegram, we assumed you were no longer interested.’
Gwen’s head swam. What telegram?
‘We sent it… let me see, on the thirteenth of September, to your digs in Bolton.’
Bolton. She remembered the landlady; taciturn, uninterested, and serving the limpest bacon that was an insult to slaughtered pigs. By the time the telegram arrived, Gwen calculated, she would have moved on to Coventry, but it was a theatrical landlady’s job to forward all mail and telegrams. A task this landlady had failed to carry out.
Gwen’s legs buckled. There was nothing to be done. Somebody else had her role, and all her dreams of stardom crumbled.
She looked out at the waves crashing against the shore. Clouds streamed across the Channel, matching Gwen’s darkening mood. She allowed herself to weep for the dreams that were now turned to dust, her body shaking with the intensity of this loss.
There was only one thing she knew she could do: tonight’s performances beckoned.
Later, she stood in the wings, watching the end of the new act before hers. Excitement had been high for the arrival of Donald Dundonald Gemmell, ‘The Man With the Educated Feet.’ Gwen watched, spellbound by his tap routine. How did his feet fly across the stage? She swore she could see sparks fly. As he left the stage, he threw her a disarming smile.
‘Knock ‘em dead,’ his nasal Merseyside twang causing her own lips, finally, to rise. Gwen strolled onto the stage and lifted her chin before taking her seat. She let her fingers dance across the piano keys and her voice rang out once more.
Lady Valetta Writes 