Read Online After the Cabaret by Hilary Bailey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Hilary Bailey
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and let him in. Of course, Hodd was in uniform.
âThe legend went that one day two girls in evening dress, looking for their boyfriends, had the door opened to them by Winston Churchill, who said gallantly that if they couldnât find who they were looking for theyâd be welcome at his table â where his private secretary, a cabinet member and a general were sitting.
âThe rules for membership of La Vie en Rose were the same as the rules for staying at the Bessemer. If Cora liked you, you got in. If she didnât, you stayed out. The room was very small, rectangular, only about twenty-one feet by fifteen, with a bar at the back, next to the stairs, a tiny platform at the other end, hardly big enough to take the band, which usually consisted of a piano, saxophone and a couple of drums. There was just enough room on this dais for Vi or Sally, who worked in shifts. Apart from that there were ten small tables, crammed together and in front of the platform a tiny space where you could dance â almost. People were jammed together on busy nights but in places like that they like to be crowded together.
âThe whole place was painted strawberry pink, which looked horrible in daylight, but was somehow comforting at night, when the lights, also pink-shaded, were low.
âThe beer was terrible â Cora didnât care. Where she got the other drinks from it was better not to ask. I donât know how she did it but throughout the war when the pubs, even, would have to put up signs saying NO BEER, Cora managed something. There was almost always gin, whisky and brandy and sometimes there would be a miraculous arrival of wine, or plum brandy, or Calvados.
âHow Cora found the drink was one mystery. Where she got the band from was another. They started with an old pianist, Vincent Tubman, who had been an accompanist in his younger days for many famous singers, including, by his account, Dame Nellie Melba. He claimed to have stood in when her own accompanist was taken ill. However, the drink had got to Vincent. He wasnât bad when he wassober but he often wasnât. Sometimes I saw him carried unconscious from his piano stool. At first, too, there was a furtive saxophonist, who seldom spoke. He came and went guiltily each evening. Briggs thought he was a deserter who thought heâd be safest from detection in a place full of senior servicemen, what they called the âbrassâ. Pymâs theory was that he was a bigamist, hiding from several wives. The drummer was a tired young man who worked as a postman during the day â they couldnât call him up because he had bad lungs. And, of course, there were Vi and Sally.
âPontifex Street had decided to turn out in force to celebrate the opening on the seventh of September. But at five oâclock the sirens went and the big raid began. The West End of London where we were was much less affected, but it was a shock. The bombers just came straight in through southern England, crossed the Thames and bombarded the docks, railway lines and homes of the East End.
âPeople had never experienced this before and they were terrified. The fire services and ambulances werenât properly prepared, the ack-ack batteries werenât in place. There werenât enough air-raid shelters. The bombers flew off and returned two hours later, when it was getting dark. The raids went on for twelve hours, until dawn next day.
âIt must have been about seven, getting dark, when I stood with Pym on the roof at Pontifex Street, and saw what we were to see often again â the sun setting in the west but appearing to set also in the east, where a glow of fire four miles away stretched along the whole horizon.
âThen we heard the bombers coming back and the soundof the second attack. The sirens started up again. Puffs of smoke began to appear on the burning horizon. We heard some planes coming towards us. Pym said, âBloody
âThe legend went that one day two girls in evening dress, looking for their boyfriends, had the door opened to them by Winston Churchill, who said gallantly that if they couldnât find who they were looking for theyâd be welcome at his table â where his private secretary, a cabinet member and a general were sitting.
âThe rules for membership of La Vie en Rose were the same as the rules for staying at the Bessemer. If Cora liked you, you got in. If she didnât, you stayed out. The room was very small, rectangular, only about twenty-one feet by fifteen, with a bar at the back, next to the stairs, a tiny platform at the other end, hardly big enough to take the band, which usually consisted of a piano, saxophone and a couple of drums. There was just enough room on this dais for Vi or Sally, who worked in shifts. Apart from that there were ten small tables, crammed together and in front of the platform a tiny space where you could dance â almost. People were jammed together on busy nights but in places like that they like to be crowded together.
âThe whole place was painted strawberry pink, which looked horrible in daylight, but was somehow comforting at night, when the lights, also pink-shaded, were low.
âThe beer was terrible â Cora didnât care. Where she got the other drinks from it was better not to ask. I donât know how she did it but throughout the war when the pubs, even, would have to put up signs saying NO BEER, Cora managed something. There was almost always gin, whisky and brandy and sometimes there would be a miraculous arrival of wine, or plum brandy, or Calvados.
âHow Cora found the drink was one mystery. Where she got the band from was another. They started with an old pianist, Vincent Tubman, who had been an accompanist in his younger days for many famous singers, including, by his account, Dame Nellie Melba. He claimed to have stood in when her own accompanist was taken ill. However, the drink had got to Vincent. He wasnât bad when he wassober but he often wasnât. Sometimes I saw him carried unconscious from his piano stool. At first, too, there was a furtive saxophonist, who seldom spoke. He came and went guiltily each evening. Briggs thought he was a deserter who thought heâd be safest from detection in a place full of senior servicemen, what they called the âbrassâ. Pymâs theory was that he was a bigamist, hiding from several wives. The drummer was a tired young man who worked as a postman during the day â they couldnât call him up because he had bad lungs. And, of course, there were Vi and Sally.
âPontifex Street had decided to turn out in force to celebrate the opening on the seventh of September. But at five oâclock the sirens went and the big raid began. The West End of London where we were was much less affected, but it was a shock. The bombers just came straight in through southern England, crossed the Thames and bombarded the docks, railway lines and homes of the East End.
âPeople had never experienced this before and they were terrified. The fire services and ambulances werenât properly prepared, the ack-ack batteries werenât in place. There werenât enough air-raid shelters. The bombers flew off and returned two hours later, when it was getting dark. The raids went on for twelve hours, until dawn next day.
âIt must have been about seven, getting dark, when I stood with Pym on the roof at Pontifex Street, and saw what we were to see often again â the sun setting in the west but appearing to set also in the east, where a glow of fire four miles away stretched along the whole horizon.
âThen we heard the bombers coming back and the soundof the second attack. The sirens started up again. Puffs of smoke began to appear on the burning horizon. We heard some planes coming towards us. Pym said, âBloody
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