Shirley (27 page)

By the time the plane came down in Delhi, a stopover for refuelling, Bernard wondered just what he had let himself in for. Managing Marlene Dietrich on tour had sometimes been difficult, but never like this. Thelma felt ill.
Sharon and Samantha whined that they were too hot and wanted a drink, and Shirley had just told Bernard if he didn’t like it he knew what to do. There was no air conditioning and a few tired punkah fans whirred listlessly. Kenny Clayton had mysteriously vanished the moment the aircraft steps were in place. Canny guy, thought Bernard enviously.

Bernard and his female entourage stood abandoned in the middle of a noisy Indian bazaar which was the Reception area. ‘I feel ill,’ groaned Thelma. She’d been a bad aircraft passenger, feeling ill as soon as they crossed the English Channel.

Happy Indian families sat on the floor of the vast hall and tucked into picnics of curry and rice and chapatis as they waited for relatives to arrive from the Punjab, Patna or Calcutta. The smell of garlic, spices and frying koftas made Thelma feel even worse, and she had to be taken outside into the fresh air. Bernard sat the little group on an empty bench outside where they huddled together as flies dive-bombed them and the little yellow scooter-vans ran circles around them.

An old man with a glass barrel of lemonade on his back passed by and the children immediately cried that they were dying of thirst. Shirley let out a shrill warning about deadly germs and asked Bernard to find some nice clean sealed Coca-Cola. When he returned Thelma, who still looked green, asked pathetically when they were leaving. The children said it was too hot and Shirley sighed. Bernard said he’d try and find them a better place to sit. As he left he said to Shirley, perhaps unwisely, ‘This isn’t really for us, is it?’

Shirley stared at him as if he’d said something
completely incomprehensible. ‘Not for us?’ she repeated as if she’d lost her senses. ‘I’m going to Sydney. I’ve signed the contracts. I am going there, Sharon is going there, we’re all going, and if you don’t like the way we’re getting there, then piss off.’

Bernard found a benign airport official who took pity on them and gave them a cool office. There was a punkah fan overhead but the smell was now of sandalwood and a fly spray. The children fell asleep and the two ladies closed their eyes. Bernard sat staring into space and his thoughts wandered. He reflected on Shirley’s determination to perform, come hell or high water, and suddenly came to a realisation. Shirley and Marlene Dietrich – how alike these two women were. They were unstoppable. Both seemed to have a dynamo inside themselves that drove them on, and if they began to flag, they’d always have something in reserve to fuel them right to the top; that special ingredient that kept their faces on billboards all over the world: the star tattoo.

As soon as they arrived in Sydney, they changed planes and left at once for Melbourne for a rest. The office manager back in London had got this one absolutely right: The Fairfax was a luxury hotel out of town and had a swimming pool. The children would be happy being looked after by Thelma while the three adults went to work. Kenny Clayton introduced Bernard to John McAuliffe, Shirley’s Melbourne agent and the man cited by Kenneth Hume in his divorce case. There existed a happy relationship between them all until they discovered where Kenneth Hume decided they should work.

Kenny Clayton was the first to take a look at the Roaring
Twenties nightclub. He came back with a strange story. ‘The taxi driver told me that until last week the club was a chocolate factory, and you can still smell the chocolate.’ Furthermore, in spite of Kenneth promising otherwise, they were going to have to work two shows a night. Kenny produced a handbill which read, ‘Roaring Twenties Restaurant, for a limited season of 9 days February 3rd to February 12th [Two floor shows nightly] Miss Shirley Bassey. Book now. Entrance price £20 with a bottle of champagne on the table.’

That wasn’t the only unpleasant surprise. The drink laws in Australia had recently been changed and it was no longer an offence to buy liquor after six p.m. So it was no longer necessary to go to a nightclub to get an after-hours drink – the pubs were cheaper. This would surely have hit the nightclub trade. They had to rely on Shirley’s name to fill the place.

After a week of resting by the pool they all felt better, and Bernard and Shirley were back in their old friendly relationship, though not lovers as they had been in Cannes. Things were very different. She was a much more important star than he had ever been then.

As soon as he saw the Roaring Twenties Bernard knew Shirley wouldn’t like it. Something very odd had been happening. The chocolate factory turned out to be a kind of village hall with a corrugated iron roof. It was now empty, with a hastily built wooden stage for the performers and room for the orchestra. The place designated as Shirley’s dressing room was a disgrace, a couple of cane chairs and a table, a mirror, an electric light bulb or two. The story was that someone had chosen a cheap setting,
pulled in a big star and was going to make a killing before the place was pulled down in a week or two. Shirley was expected to sit in this place for six or seven hours in the intense heat every afternoon and evening, with no air conditioning or fans. The Roaring Twenties was half an hour’s drive from the hotel and there was a long wait between shows. Shirley’s performances were very hard work, not the kind she could conclude and then walk away from. She had to be left alone for a time, to come down to earth again. This was no way to treat her and Bernard was appalled: Kenneth Hume must surely have known the kind of place they were coming to.

Shirley, Bernard and Kenny began the routine that would last for the next nine days. The car would call for them while everyone else was having an afternoon siesta. She’d go into the children’s room and call, ‘Bye now, Balls and I are off to work.’ She’d pick up little Samantha and bury her face in the baby’s round tummy, making buzzing noises, and the child would shriek with pleasure. Young Sharon would quietly watch them before they left, finally getting a kiss herself.

They’d drive through the suburb of Windsor which was filled with migrants renovating their houses, invariably witness a fight or two en route, and finally arrive at Chapel Street and the chocolate factory. Kenny Clayton would disappear until he came back later with the orchestra for the first performance. Bernard was acting throughout the tour as Shirley’s dresser so he would remain with her. She was fortunate to have Bernard around who would sensitively blend into the background if required. If Shirley wanted to talk, he could be funny and witty, if not he kept quiet. He
was the perfect dresser for a volatile star like Shirley.

The village hall looked a bit better now with curtains, jazzy cloths on the tables, and shaded electric lights, but it was still a dump. Shirley would apply her make-up, put on her wig and Bernard would help her into her dress. A final spray of perfume and she’d be ready for the first show. It was like the attack was about to begin. She reminded him of a little boxer going into the ring, arm muscles moving, the whole chest rising, the fighter going in to win.

The words came ringing into the dressing room ‘Miss Shirley Bassey’ . . . and then she’d take a deep deep breath and out she’d go, ready for anything. Cheers and shouts always greeted her, ‘Australia loves ya, baby!’ The noise level reached a crescendo. The adrenalin was flowing now and she was into her first number. Every number would be just as good and she’d be just as good in the second show, and the day after. She was the consummate professional.

Bernard would be waiting for her when she finished the early show, and, soaked with perspiration, Shirley would rip off her wig and throw it across the room. Bernard then took off her dress very carefully and covered her with large white fleecy towels. Finally he eased her into a white bathrobe. He’d hang up her expensive dress to dry and observe her sitting silent and exhausted and fetch her some tea. He knew she needed to be alone, for this was what he had felt in the past. Later she’d want to talk, but not yet. He looked after her by instinct and experience as well as with the skills learned from Marlene Dietrich, who had been his tutor. He admired Shirley’s gutsiness and talent tremendously and he was falling in love with her all over again.

Shirley and Bernard both blamed Kenneth Hume for letting her sign a contract that meant two shows a night and hours spent in an unventilated box without even a lavatory. Shirley said she had put a call through to Kenneth in London, but had had to leave a message.

Bernard was having problems with Kenneth’s money. Kenneth had arranged that Bernard should pick up Shirley’s share of the club’s takings at the end of each show, and bank it the next day. John McAuliffe seemed to be running the nightclub and it was to him that Bernard was expected to go. At the end of the first night John asked him to wait until tomorrow, because he had not yet counted the champagne bottles. Shirley was not pleased. Bernard must make John understand that it was a case of no money, no Shirley. If the money was not handed over every night she would not sing. Neither Kenny Clayton nor Bernard liked doing Kenneth Hume’s job for him, but they did it for Shirley.

It was always part of Bernard’s job to wake Shirley up every morning at twelve. He’d stroke her forehead gently until she opened her eyes. When her breakfast tray was brought up he’d sit with her and chat while she ate her breakfast. They were chatting when Kenneth Hume returned Shirley’s call to him. Shirley told him how upset she was about having to do two shows a night in such a terrible dump. He heard Hume cut in and tell her that it wouldn’t hurt her to do two shows a night.

Shirley told him what she thought of that. There was no bathroom, no toilet, no ventilation, in fact there was damn all. Kenneth’s breezy comment came over loud and clear. ‘You gettin’ old? What’s a marrer?’

That did it. The flood gates opened and Shirley unleashed a torrent of abuse. First, she was doing eighteen shows, shows in tropical heat, and that was the best he could say? She told him what she thought of him, how she hoped he would live to regret his words. He was this, he was that, she spelt it all out. When she’d finished she slammed down the receiver. Shirley then picked up the heavy breakfast tray. She raised it as high as she could and, in a great show of strength, hurled it right across the room.

Bernard wisely kept his mouth shut. He knew exactly how she felt. The night before she had told him that he reminded her of Finchy, the absent Peter Finch, and she’d asked why didn’t he give up dancing and take up acting seriously, as that was where the money was. She showed that she cared about him and he loved her for it, and he loathed Kenneth Hume for treating her so badly.

Bernard knew that Shirley wasn’t in love with him any more, but she was fond of him in her own special way. They had a loyalty to each other and the tenderness still remained. He was young and good-looking and a professional entertainer like herself. He knew all about the trauma of being alone on an empty stage, the dangers if something goes wrong, and how long it takes to get down from that high after a performance. His way to relax after a performance was to have a meal with friends, drink wine and talk until he was tired enough to sleep. Shirley’s way was different, she could only eat very light meals, she hardly drank and she liked to return to her hotel, take off her make-up and go straight to bed. She would take two Tuinols to help her sleep, but they didn’t always work.

Shirley worried that lack of sleep affected her voice, so
they started a nightly routine to try and help her sleep. He would sit on the edge of her bed; they’d chat about the show, gossip, flirt, and after a time she thought she might doze off so he’d kiss her good-night, but that didn’t always work either. Perhaps his goodnight kiss did get a little warmer every night and one night he didn’t leave at all.

Bernard was happy that they became lovers again. There was nothing cold blooded about their nightly routine. He was excited by her touch and there was strong sexual chemistry. Bernard found Shirley incredibly desirable, full of fire and yet also vulnerable. They both enjoyed lovemaking and Shirley no longer had any problem sleeping.

Melbourne came to an end and only the fact that the children and Thelma would soon have to fly home was a slight dampener to their high spirits. By the time they left the children would have had six weeks of holiday. It was not a good idea to take them on the rest of the tour for some of it could be pretty rough, and anyway Sharon had to go back to school.

Of the two children Bernard found Sharon much the easiest. Little Samantha was always on the go and one of her favourite early morning pranks was going into Bernard’s bedroom and stuffing cornflakes down his pyjama trousers. There was certainly some of Shirley’s talent in her and Bernard taught her little songs and dances. A couple of years later Samantha sang and danced in a charity show at the Adelphi Theatre. The song, ‘I’ll Be Your Sweetheart’, was one Bernard had taught Samantha in Melbourne. Bernard with Shirley applauded enthusiastically, and afterwards her mother wept with emotion.

Sharon was very different, quiet and more of a loner. She would wrap the curtains in Shirley’s Melbourne hotel bedroom around herself and while Bernard and Shirley chatted they forgot that she was there. She seemed to need to listen to grown-ups talking together. Her life had changed abruptly when she left her foster mother and father in Wales to live with her real mother. Shirley has admitted that she knew Sharon had problems adjusting and it took time, as well as a family tragedy, before she felt that at last they were close and had a loving and happy mother and daughter relationship.

In Sydney everything was good. The hotel was luxurious and the nightclub, the Chequers, was well run. Their agent, Charlie Baxter, looked after all the big stars who came to Australia, and he was full of laughs; a
bon viveur
who loved wine, good food and parties. After a month in Sydney Charlie would be travelling with them to New Zealand. He asked Bernard if he could be called upon to perform song and dance in Shirley’s programme should other performers be unable to get to the various theatres. Bernard asked why, and Charlie told him it was the deluges of rain that characterised New Zealand and made transport impossible.