morning came, she descended into the kitchen to break the news to Sadie, knowing that it would probably come as a relief to her younger sister. But an historic occur-rence took place that was to change the whole pattern of their lives. For the first time since they had lived in Corkell’s Yard, a postman delivered a letter. It was addressed to Miss Stella Raven, c/o the Raven Sisters.
Mrs Ravenscroft gingerly accepted it from him when he knocked at the door – there being no letterbox, indeed, until then there had been no need for one. She gave a brief curtsey and carried it indoors, delicately held between thumb and forefinger as though she was going to take it away to have it tested for fingerprints. She placed it by the oil lamp for a while, then decided it should be on the mantle-shelf, where it would be more prominent. Then she sat down and watched it do nothing.
Glumly, Stella reached for the first mug of tea she saw poured out and drifted into the best room. Her mother had got the open fire alight, but it was still cold as yet. ‘You all right, Mam?’ she asked, when seeing how immobile she was in her seat. She nodded at the mantle-shelf as if it was holding her at gun point, and Stella gave a curious frown before picking up the letter that rested on it. ‘Stone the flamin’ crows,’ she gasped.
‘Don’t open it,’ begged her mother, and with unexpected animation she leapt forward, snatched it, and returned it back to what she felt was its correct position – on the mantle-shelf.
‘It’s got to be opened, Mam. It’s a letter – and it’s ad -dressed to me. It could be urgent.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she agreed. Then she said, rather smugly, ‘Mrs Milligan saw him deliver it, you know.’ Her face began to beam. ‘We’ll be the talk of the neighbour-hood.’
Stella opened it and read in silence for a moment or two.
‘Who sent it, then?’ asked her mother.
‘It’s from a theatrical agent I wrote to in London some weeks back.’
‘London?’ she gasped, as if her daughter had just said Hades.
‘Yes, Mam, London. You know it; it’s that place down south with big buildings.’
‘Watch your tongue, young madam,’ she warned. ‘You’re not so big that I can’t put you across my knee if needs be.’
‘Do you want to hear it, then?’
‘I’m not moving till I do.’
‘It says, “Dear Miss Raven, Thank you for your letter of the twenty-first inst. To confirm the advert in The Stage, yes, we are seeking new young talent to represent. We are a young agency with as much ambition as the artistes we have on our lists. Please call in to see us, accompanied by this letter. Yours sincerely, Brooksie (Ronnie Brookfield).”’
Stella put the letter back in its envelope and replaced it on the mantle-shelf. ‘What happens now?’ her mother asked.
‘How do you mean?’ Stella fenced with her.
‘You know. What happens now? Do you write to him again or what?’
‘Yes. I’ll write to him telling him I got his letter. Then I’ll go to London and visit him – probably fix up an audition with him and get any other work that’s about. There’s more prospects down there. Sadie and me may get good theatre work.’
‘And what do you think your dad’s going to say when you ask him if you can go to London?’
As far as Stella was concerned, her father had nothing to do with her decisions, and so she answered her mother with as much nonchalance as she could muster. ‘Well, Mam, for one thing I won’t be asking Dad, I’ll be telling him I’m going, and if Sadie and Tommy can’t come with me I’ll just have to go alone.’
Then her nonchalant air began to fade as she saw her mother’s eyebrows raise in shock. Stella raised a hand as she said, ‘I’ll have no rows about it. I’m not wanting to lose my temper, but I’ve made up my mind, no matter what. I have my own money and Sadie has more than enough to pay her own half.’
‘Sadie’ll pay half, will she? And where did you get that idea from? It was you that wrote to the agency, not our Sadie.’
‘Mam, I’ll be going down to try and find work for the both of us. It’s always been me that’s taken care of fixing everything up. I even do all the music, the dance arrangements and everything else to do with the act.’ She paused for a second, conscious that she may have been playing for too much sympathy. ‘Look, she has a nice little nest-egg in the Post Office, and I doubt she’d even have to give up her job at the shop to come with me, but she will have to pay her own fare.’
‘She won’t be allowed to leave work just to take fancy trips down to London,’ said her mother firmly, as if she, herself, employed her at the shop.
Inwardly Stella sensed that her mother’s concern was over the loss of keep-money rather than the temporary loss of two daughters. ‘You know, Mam, when you talk like this it’s easy to see why you and Dad never got anywhere.’
Was she really speaking to her own mother like this? she quickly thought. ‘You have no spirit of adventure, which is why one day you’ll die in this horrible little prison and nothing of interest will have ever happened to you. There’s a land of opportunity out there; not here in Lancaster, Morecambe, or Preston, Mam. It’s down there, in London.’
Stella had once seen Miriam Hopkins do a similar speech in one of her films substituting Lancaster, Morecambe, and Preston for Palm Beach, Long Island, and Pasadena.
Her mother stood up, walked over to a taper, and lit the fire. She was having difficulty in quelling her anger. ‘If your father could hear you talk like that he’d tan your arse, Stella Ravenscroft. And I’d help him. Now set the table, Miss Uppity.’ With a touch of resignation Stella opened the knife-drawer, making as much noise as she could. Her mother left the room and quickly Stella reached for the letter on the mantle-shelf. ‘And you can leave that where it is,’ said her mother’s distant voice. ‘Your dad’s to read it before it goes walking.’
Jack and Lilly Ravenscroft were still thumping the kitchen table and laying down the law while Sadie and Tommy were at the station waving Stella off on the London-bound train for her first-ever trip ‘down there’.
Within a few days Jack and Lilly received a postcard from their 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
