Irene Holland - Tales of a Tiller Girl

‘Gaga, Papa, I got into Italia Conti!’ I told them excitedly when I got home.

‘Very good, Rene,’ said my grandmother, not even bothering to look up from her needlework. I didn’t expect to get glowing accolades, but it would have been nice for them to acknowledge it. After all, they always seemed so proud of their other grandchildren who were all very academic and had gone off to good schools and universities.

The only downside of starting at Italia Conti was that I would have to leave Honeywell Road Primary, where I was very happy. I had a wonderful teacher there called Mrs Ritchie, and I couldn’t wait to tell her my news.

‘Mrs Ritchie, I got into Italia Conti,’ I told her with a big grin. ‘I start next week.’

‘Well, that is excellent news,’ she said.

At the end of the day, she called me over to her and pulled out a chair from under the table.

‘Stand up there, Rene,’ she said in a loud voice. ‘Now tell the rest of the class what you’re going to be.’

‘I’m going to stage school and I’m going to be a ballet dancer,’ I said proudly.

The whole class clapped and gave me three cheers. She was the only person to recognise my achievement and it felt lovely to have someone making a fuss of me. It made me feel really special and I’ve never forgotten that.

Even though I was sad to leave school I couldn’t wait to start at Italia Conti. I spent the next week getting all of the things that I needed for class. Thankfully Mum had left me some money for any extras that I might need. My grandmother made my uniform, which was a black sleeveless satin tunic with two slits up the side and tied in a bow at the back, and black cotton gym knickers.

One afternoon I got the bus up to Covent Garden and went to Frederick Freed’s in St Martin’s Lane, which I’d heard was the place for professional dancers to get their shoes.

‘I’d like some dance shoes, please,’ I told the shop assistant. ‘I need some bright red tap shoes with bows, pink ballet shoes and pink satin pointe shoes.’

‘Well, that’s quite a list, Miss,’ she said. ‘Are you here with your mother?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m here on my own.’

Thankfully she knew what she was doing and fitted them for me. There’s something special about dance shoes when they’re brand new, and I loved every minute of it. The shop assistants made such a fuss of me and brought out about a dozen pairs of ballet shoes all in different shades of pink satin. I loved the pointe shoes the most, as I’d never done pointe work before and that was what prima ballerinas wore. They were stuffed with papier mâché in the toes.

‘They’re beautiful,’ I sighed. ‘I can’t wait to learn to dance on those.’

‘You’ll have to get your mother to sew the ribbons on,’ the shop assistant told me.

‘Oh, my mother’s not around at the minute,’ I told her. ‘I can do it myself.’

It was special pink ribbon that was satin on one side and cotton on the other, so they didn’t slip when you tied them around your ankles.

‘It’s important to get them just right,’ the woman at Freed’s told me. ‘Not too tight, not too loose.

‘You also need to darn the ends with embroidery cotton so they don’t wear out and place a lamb’s wool pad on your toes to protect them.’

I also had to sew the elastic straps on my flat satin ballet pumps.

I went home with my head spinning about all the things I had to remember to do. Although I’d been taught needlework at school, I wasn’t much good at it, but I was determined to do it and not have to ask my grandmother for help. So I spent the next few evenings sewing away for hours. God knows what sort of a job I did, but I was so proud that I’d done it all myself.

Soon it was time for my first day and I was filled with excitement as well as a few nerves. Walking through those doors at Italia Conti felt to me like going into fairyland. I wasn’t even disheartened when the first person I saw was Miss Margaret, the drama teacher.

‘Hello,’ I said nervously. ‘I’m here for my first day.’

‘What’s your name, de-arr, and I’ll put you down on the register?’ she asked.

‘Irene,’ I said. ‘Irene Bott.’

Miss Margaret put down her fountain pen and gave me a look of utter disdain.

‘Excuse me?’ she said.

‘Irene Bott,’ I repeated.

She fixed her steely gaze on me.

‘Bott?’ she boomed. ‘You can’t possibly come to Italia Conti with a name like Bott. Come back tomorrow with a new name.’

‘Oh – er, all right then,’ I said.

I’d never thought there was anything particularly wrong with my name. She never said why, but perhaps she thought that Bott was too much like bottom. I wouldn’t have dreamed of saying no to her, but I worried about it all day.

By the time I got home that evening I’d really started to panic. How was I going to come up with this new name? Pluck one out of thin air completely at random?

I went up to my bedroom and was flicking through my favourite comics for inspiration when I noticed the name of one of the characters in the Beano – Sylvia Starr, ace reporter.

‘That’s it!’ I said.

The next day I went back and Miss Margaret was waiting there with the register.

‘So have you got a new name, de-aar?’

‘Yes,’ I said proudly. ‘I want to be called Irene Starr.’

She looked at me in disgust and said, ‘Well, I suppose that will have to do then, won’t it?’

From then on, Irene Bott didn’t exist any more. I was always known as Irene Starr.

A few days later a letter arrived from Mum. I had written to her to tell her all my news but it took weeks for the mail to get through to the troops. It was lovely to see the familiar scrawl of her handwriting.

Dearest Rene,

I was so pleased to hear that you won a place at Italia Conti and I bet you are enjoying doing your beloved dancing all day. Don’t worry about the fees, I have contacted Miss Conti directly and taken care of them from here.

It was clear from her letter that my mother was enjoying travelling and she was really taken with Egypt.

It’s so different to performing in the orchestra of the big London theatres. Our ‘stage’ is four wooden planks of wood resting across oil drums or ammunition boxes. There are a couple of shoddy dancers, a singer (if you can call her that) and I’m one of a quartet of musicians. Some people have cruelly nicknamed ENSA ‘Every Night Something Awful’ but we are doing the best we can to entertain the troops and keep up their morale in difficult circumstances. Despite all the hardships, I am finding it fascinating experiencing another culture so different to ours.

Mum still had her strong principles, though, and she described how one day she had seen a little boy begging in one of the villages. She had gone over and given him some money but the sheikh of the village had seen her.

This man with a long beard wearing a robe came and snatched the money off the poor boy and put it into his own pocket. Well, Rene, you know me. I went berserk. I ran over to him and said: ‘Don’t you dare do that. Give it back.’ I think the fellow was stunned that a woman, and one as tiny as me, would challenge him. I know I could probably have got into all sorts of bother but he did as I asked.

I smiled at the thought of the man’s shocked face as my mother had come marching over to him and given him what for. I bet he hadn’t been expecting that!

Love you and miss you, Rene.

Love always,

Mum xx

She’d sent me a black-and-white photo of her sitting by the Suez Canal. She looked happy, and I noticed that she’d had her hair cut into a shoulder-length bob, which was probably cooler in the oppressive heat of the desert.