Lauren Bacall - By Myself and Then Some

I closed my suitcase on April 3. Mother’s boss had allowed her to take the day off so she could put me on the train – a rare exception, as she was never given time off. Rosalie and Charlie came to collect us. I had a long talk with Droopy, explaining that I could not take him with me, but I would miss him and write to him. It was a reality. I was really leaving. I would not see home for a while at least. Not Mother, not Grandma, not my dog. I was frightened – excited but frightened. Grandma had stayed overnight with us to be with me and help her daughter – she knew how Mother would miss her little girl.

We were going to Lindy’s for lunch, a restaurant on Broadway with among other things Jewish delicatessen food and famous for its cheesecake. Jack and Vera would meet us there. No one was working that afternoon.

We had a gay, jokey lunch. Charlie promised to take care of Mother. Grandma told me to take care of me. Jack advised me to just be myself – to remember that Howard Hawks was very important in the movie world, that Charles Feldman was a very important agent, that I was getting a very lucky break and must work hard. They all had faith in me. They all loved me. They brought me a corsage of gardenias, my favorite flower. They were sending me on my way with jokes, joy, confidence, and a few tears. It was an ending of sorts. I loved them all very, very much. We all went together to Grand Central Station. I had my ticket in my hand, a very impressive ticket – I was in Bedroom A. A bedroom, not just a berth! Unbelievable.

Finally the moment of parting came. I hugged and kissed everyone many times. I felt very grown-up, but when I came to Grandma I could feel the tears start, and when I turned to Mother they welled up even more. She was trying to hold hers back – I was doing the same. I said, ‘Don’t worry, Mother darling, I’ll be fine. It’s all going to come true. We’ll be together very soon – I love you.’ She said, ‘Take care of yourself,’ put her hand under my chin, squeezed me as she always did when she was bursting with love, and said, ‘That’s a sweetheart – that’s the best.’ We never bared our feelings completely with one another. I guess we both knew that if one of us did, the other would fall apart completely. Some constraint was always in order. But the bond was so strong, we knew what we felt without much display.

They all left the train. I rushed to my bedroom, looked at them through the windows, waved, blew kisses, smiled, cried – and the train started to move away. I sat back in my large seat, looked at myself in the small mirror opposite me, and said, ‘Well, Betty Bacall, this is it. This train is taking you on a new adventure, totally different from anything you’ve ever known. Take a deep breath.’

It was not so much an ending after all. It was a beginning.

T he train moved slowly out of New York. I sat looking out the window, my mind gradually leaving my family and starting to look ahead. As the dinner hour approached, I would have to devise something – I couldn’t bear walking into a restaurant anywhere – having a meal alone with strange eyes watching me – couldn’t then – can’t now. The porter had told me he would bring me anything I liked once the train was out of the station. I didn’t drink, so I couldn’t ask for a cocktail. On rare occasions I had drunk an Orange Blossom – gin and orange juice – to make me feel grown-up, but I didn’t really like it. But I pushed the porter button anyway and when he arrived I ordered a ginger ale.

I sat back on the long sofa-like seat and started acting to the mirror. Ridiculous but very comforting. In about ten minutes the buzzer rang. I opened the door and the porter was standing there with a glass filled with ice, a small bottle of ginger ale, a mixer, and a napkin on a small round tray. He raised the table and set the tray down. I felt very luxurious. He said the call for dinner would be around seven o’clock – if I wished a table I should go to the dining car early, and after tonight I could reserve a table for each day. I asked about breakfast and he told me he would gladly bring my breakfast on a tray whenever I wished it. What service! Only Mother had ever served breakfast to me, and never on a tray. When I was alone once more, I sat again, held my glass of ginger ale as though it were a drink, and started to play a scene with Charles Feldman.

What did he look like? I imagined a dark-haired, faceless man of no particular age and carried on what I thought was a simple first conversation with him. ‘How do you do, Mr Feldman?’ with a slight smile. ‘Yes, the trip out was lovely…. Oh, do you really think so?… Well, thank you. I’m very much looking forward to meeting Mr Hawks and going to work. I’ve never been to California before, but I’m sure I will love it.’ I was very woman-of-the-world in my bedroom on the Twentieth Century that third day of April 1943. Sounded nothing like me, of course.

The train trip was totally happy, comfortable, different. Three days to get used to the possibility of a whole new life. Then, at about noon on the third day, Los Angeles. The station was large, but nothing like Grand Central. The minute I got off the train I knew I was in new country. There was an immediate air of informality. After I passed through the gate a man came up and identified himself as an associate of Feldman. We were going to the Feldman office in Beverly Hills, where the man himself would be waiting to greet us.

As we left the station area the streets looked so white, palm trees on either side, and it was all so clean. I’d never known there were cities as physically clean and pure-looking. Beautiful. Many automobiles, no noticeable taxis, no streetcars, some buses. Not many people on the streets – that I found very strange – and no skyscrapers. We finally arrived at our destination, the California Bank Building on the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Beverly Drive – a tall building compared with the others around it, but not tall by New York standards. Luggage was left in the car and we went to meet Feldman. The agency occupied an entire floor – there were individual offices on either side of the corridor and at the end a large corner office which housed my future, who was to return from lunch in ten or fifteen minutes. Various men ambled in. Finally, a very attractive man – dark hair, gray at the temples, mustached, very suntanned, in a gray flannel suit – walked toward me and said, ‘You are Betty Bacall. Come on in.’ In I walked. He made it very, very easy. His mouth curled up at the corners as though he were on the verge of a smile. After I told him about the trip, he said he’d reserved a room for me in a hotel in Westwood Village for the time being. He asked if I could drive a car. ‘Drive a car?’ I thought. ‘I’ve never even considered it.’ He said, ‘Don’t worry, there will always be someone to drive you here or wherever you have to go. I’ll set up a lunch with Howard for tomorrow. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?’ ‘I’d love it!’ ‘Okay, why don’t you get settled in your hotel? I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.’

He made it all simple, had a sense of humor. I liked him immediately. The man who’d come to the station accompanied me to the Claremont Hotel. Still spotlessly clean streets, palms and other trees, the shops small and shining, small buildings in Beverly Hills and on Wilshire Boulevard that had several apartments in each. It was so unlike my home city. The Claremont was a small white hotel off Wilshire, inside Westwood Village. The village looked charming from the car – I’d explore after unpacking.

I signed the register and was led to a small double room upstairs – my first time with a room all to myself in a hotel. My first time not having to share a closet or a bathroom. I could look out my window and see people (not many) walking around a small arcade across the street. Greenery and flowers all around. This California was incredible. It was like a resort. Did anyone work here?