TP Fielden - A Quarter Past Dead

‘Yes, I threw that one in the bin. But Athene, how tangled people’s lives become! A woman who interferes in her daughter-in-law’s child-rearing, two old friends falling out over a pot of jam…’

‘You see why I couldn’t do it,’ said Athene. She was plaiting her hair into the bright blue paper rose which was her favourite adornment.

‘Well, I can’t do it either,’ said Judy. ‘And anyway what a rotten idea to have an agony column in the first place.’

‘Mr Rhys. His idea. Only a heartless man could wish to expose other people’s misery to the world.’

‘It’s called journalism, Athene,’ sighed Miss Dimont. ‘It’s called journalism.’

SEVEN

It was never quite the same, doing a job with Betty. She was efficient, she asked the right questions, she had a good shorthand note and was usually charming enough to winkle that extra cup of tea out of the grieving widow, football pools winner, or someone whose young Einstein had just won a place at university.

Terry liked her, but that was it – she did not infuriate him like Judy did. She never told an interviewee what to think, which Judy sometimes did. She didn’t make a nuisance of herself by challenging heavy-handed authority, which Judy always did.

She had a lovely smile but often it was spoilt by the wrong choice of lipstick, and the haphazard way it was applied at her desk without the benefit of a mirror did her no favours. And then her clothes! Lime green seemed to be the favourite of the moment, but teaming it with royal blue or pink, as she did, verged on the downright reckless.

Terry snatched a glimpse of her as they drove in the Minor out to the Marine Hotel, Betty looking out at the grey listless sands stretching for miles to the rainy horizon. Temple Regis boasted the most sunshine hours anywhere in Britain, but just a mile or two down the road at Ruggleswick, there seemed to be a micro-climate which favoured grey over blue, wind over stillness, stratified clouds over a clear blue sky.

To the well-heeled patrons of the Marine, this was a bonus – their view of the sands and sea remained largely uncluttered by the human form. For the inmates of Buntorama it was proof, yet again, that British holidays were a washout. They dreamed instead of joining the exodus to Benidorm where they could drink cheap brandy and get a nice all-over sunburn.

‘This makes a change,’ Betty said half-heartedly, but she was not her usual chatty self. Terry didn’t interest himself in her love life, but she’d brought him up to speed on the matter of Dud Fensome and his thing for platinum.

This morning she was wearing a silk scarf on her head, so it was difficult to see what had been achieved over the weekend by way of damage-control but Terry, with his photographer’s instinct for the ways of women, guessed it had probably not been a great success. At least she wasn’t wearing the ruddy cat.

‘She’s got an amazing voice,’ Terry was saying. ‘You could hear it all the way down in the lobby when we went to see Bobby Bunton last week.’

Betty wasn’t listening. Instead she said, ‘I wanted to ask her about – well, she’s quite stout, isn’t she? I thought our lady readers would be interested in what she wore, you know, underneath – to keep it all under control.’

Terry looked at her disbelievingly. ‘Woman’s angle, is it? Crikey, Betty, Moomie Etta-Shaw is one of the greatest jazz singers this country has ever been lucky enough to host.’ He sounded a bit like the advertising handout he’d glanced at before leaving the office. ‘She’s had hit records! Been on the Billy Cotton Band Show ! You must have heard her singing “Volare” on the radio!

‘Stout! You don’t know the meaning of the word!’

Betty did. Dud had used it quite recently.

‘I prefer a dance band myself,’ she said, quickly changing the subject, but Terry was ahead of her. Maybe she had put on a little weight.

‘Almost there,’ he said. ‘Pictures first, Betty, then you can have as long as you like with her.’

Here was the perennial struggle between snappers and scribblers, as to who went first. Terry usually got his way, but with celebrity set-ups like this one he could take up to half an hour getting what he wanted, leaving little time for the reporter to get to grips with her subject. It was often a point of dispute between Terry and Judy, but Betty was more flexible and didn’t mind much who did what – it was just a relief to be out of the office. And the great thing was that if it was a picture story, she could always get a ride in the photographer’s car rather than catch the bus, which is what reporters were supposed to do.

Again this was something which could elicit a peppery remark or two from Miss Dimont, but Betty was more pliable. The photographer looked at her once more and realised that, whatever else happened over the weekend, she’d been let down again.

‘Good weekend?’ he asked, hoping to draw her out.

‘We’re here,’ sighed Betty with just a touch of tragedy coating her voice. ‘Don’t take too long!’

It probably didn’t improve things that Moomie was singing ‘Lover Come Back To Me’ as they entered the ballroom. Wrapped in a figure-hugging silk dress, she looked ready to entertain a thousand fans at the London Palladium, not rehearse a one-hour set for her debut tonight. Terry thrilled at the colour combination of her dark brown skin, dazzling white teeth and midnight blue wrapping – even though his newspaper still only printed in black and white.

‘Wonderful,’ he breathed, reaching into his bag for his Leica. Just for a moment he shared Betty’s curiosity about the strength of Moomie’s underpinnings – her figure was as huge as her voice – but at that moment the song finished and Betty stepped forward to make the introductions.

‘You must know,’ said Moomie with a serene smile and a wave of her arm, ‘these lovely musicians it is my privilege to work with. Mike Manifold on guitar, Cornish Pete on bass, Sticks Karanikis, drums.’

The trio nodded, absently. Professional musicians rarely look up above their score-sheets and then only to talk to each other – there wasn’t any point in wasting time getting to know them.

‘Gorgeous, Moomie,’ said Terry, seizing the initiative, ‘you put a special dress on for me! You look a million dollars! Harrods, is it?’

He said it ‘’Arrods’.

‘C&A, darling. Cost me five guineas.’

‘Gorgeous,’ burbled Terry. You couldn’t tell whether he meant it, or whether it was the standard snapper-patter to create an early intimacy between lensman and subject. Betty had heard it a million times before and wandered off in search of a cup of coffee.

Terry launched into his routine – flattering, cajoling, instructing, begging – and Moomie happily went along with it, her queen-size laugh and roistering personality turning the event into a lively celebration.

‘You’re a bit gorgeous yourself, Terry,’ she said, pouting her lips and leaning forward.

‘Fantastic!’ panted Terry, as he threw himself onto his back on the dance-floor to get the up-shot.

‘Fabulous! Can you spare a couple of tickets for tonight, Moomie?’

‘Have a dozen, darling!’ she laughed, batting her eyelids. And so the courtly ritual continued for the next twenty minutes. The pair may never meet again, but for this short span they had been lovers in all but fact. Such is the compact between photographer and celebrity – a secret contract which no reporter could ever be part of, since photographers flattered and wooed while the scribblers just asked damned awkward questions.

‘Contessa,’ snapped Moomie in answer to Betty’s first question. ‘Strongest support in the business. I’ll give you the name of my fitter if you want.’