Irene Holland - Tales of a Tiller Girl

By the time I’d helped the frail spinster down three flights of stairs we could have been bombed to high heaven. But finally we made it down to the dining-room.

‘In you go,’ I said as I gave her her a helpful push into the shelter.

‘Thank you, dear,’ she replied.

It was a bit of a squash with four of us all laid out in a row, and it wasn’t very comfy. When the air-raid siren sounded really early on like tonight I got so bored cooped up in that metal cage with three old people. But suddenly I had a great idea.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ll do a performance to cheer you all up.’

‘Rene, I really don’t think that’s necessary,’ sighed my grandmother wearily.

But I was all fired up after a day of singing and dancing at Italia Conti, and once I’d got a bee in my bonnet there was no stopping me. Every woman at that time wanted to look like the film star Jane Russell, and even though I was only twelve I was no exception. Much to my grandmother’s disgust I took off my nightie, whipped off the scarf that she had around her neck, wrapped it round my non-existent boobies and started flouncing around like a Forties risqué glamour girl in just my vest and knickers.

‘I know a fabulous Betty Grable number,’ I said, before launching into an enthusiastic rendition of ‘I Heard the Birdies Sing’.

‘I took one look at you and Cupid took a good swing,’ I sang, failing to notice that the three OAPs who formed my audience were sitting there with a look of complete horror on their faces.

‘Rene, I really don’t think this is appropriate,’ said my grandmother.

‘Oh, Gaga, you’re such a spoilsport,’ I said. ‘I’ve got another song I could do if you don’t like that one.’

‘Rene, that’s enough,’ said my grandfather sternly. ‘You’ll give poor Miss Smythe a heart attack.’

It was only then that I glanced over at the old woman and saw the shocked look on her face. I’m surprised she didn’t have a stroke on the spot.

‘I only wanted to try and cheer you all up while the bombs were coming down,’ I grumbled.

As usual we spent all night in the shelter under the table, and then at 7 a.m. I climbed out and went and got myself ready. I pulled my hair into a bun, made sure that my dance bag was packed, and then stepped over the rubble of the previous night’s bombings and headed to the Tube station. By now the war had just become part and parcel of my daily life.

My grandparents never showed any interest in my dancing and they never asked me anything about Italia Conti. There was no ‘How was your day?’ or ‘What did you have for lunch?’ I was left to get on with it, and that was what I got used to.

My grandmother would make an evening meal for me, although she was a dreadful cook. The pastry on her steak and kidney puddings was always as heavy as lead, and the filling was just as unappetising, with grey meat floating in a watery gravy. My grandfather would make himself useful around the house, and he’d boil up my washing in the big copper in the scullery and do the shopping every day.

In many ways he was a nicer, more approachable person that my grandmother, so it was him whom I asked to get me some sanitary towels when I started my periods.

‘Papa, when you’re out doing the shopping today, please could you bring me some sanitary towels from the chemist?’ I said, my cheeks turning red.

Even though he was very Victorian in some of his attitudes, he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed.

‘Yes, all right, dear,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you your women’s things.’

I think the reason he was always so keen to do the shopping was that it was an excuse to stop in every pub on the way home and have a few pints of ale. That day, when I came home from Italia Conti, there was no sign of my grandfather.

‘Where’s Papa?’ I asked my grandmother.

‘No idea,’ she sighed. ‘He went off to do the shopping and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since.’

By 10 p.m. I was starting to get worried. But Grandmother went to the front door before going to bed, and suddenly I heard the door open and then a terrible thud.

‘Good grief, Henry!’ I heard her yell.

I ran out into the hallway and there was Papa sprawled out face down on the tiled floor.

‘Look who I found asleep on the doorstep worse for wear,’ she tutted. ‘He must have nodded off stood up with his head resting on the door, because when I opened it he fell straight in.’

Gaga was certainly not amused.

‘Are you all right, Papa?’ I asked, trying to pull him up.

‘I’m fine, Rene. And don’t you worry, I’ve got your women’s things,’ he beamed, handing me a large packet of sanitary towels.

But for the most part I dealt with things on my own, and there were only a few times that it bothered me. One of those was at the end of my first year at Italia Conti when the school put on its annual production of Where the Rainbow Ends . It was a very famous play about a group of children who have to rescue their parents and face lots of dangers on the way. In the end they’re helped by St George, and it’s all very English and patriotic.

‘It’s going to be at the Coliseum,’ said Tony excitedly. ‘’Ere, imagine that, Rene. Us lot prancing round on one of the West End’s biggest stages.’

‘And in front of the King,’ said Daphne.

I couldn’t believe that we would be doing a Royal Command Performance for King George and Queen Elizabeth. I was even more thrilled when I was given a brief solo to perform.

‘Irene, I’d like you to be the evil blue fairy,’ Miss Moira the ballet teacher told me. ‘It’s your job to flit from one side of the stage to the other. Do you think you can do that, dear?’

‘Yes, Miss Moira,’ I said.

I was even more chuffed when I saw my costume – a blue dress with a boned bodice and a skirt with floaty bits of fabric coming off it.

But my heart was in my mouth as I turned up to rehearsals. With over 2,300 seats, the Coliseum was the biggest theatre in the West End and I was completely overwhelmed.

‘This place is huge,’ I sighed as I stood on the eighty-foot stage and stared out at all the seats. ‘It’s going to take me all day to dance across this stage.’

It seemed to go on for ever, and there was a huge, ornate domed roof and marble pillars.

We were thrown in at the deep end, as we were expected to learn the routine in half a day and we only had a week of rehearsals.

‘At the end of the performance the whole cast will come back on stage, and you must all turn stage right and curtsey to the royal box,’ Toni Shanley told us. ‘But there must be no staring, and under no circumstances must you look directly at the King and Queen, as that would be a breach of royal protocol. Please cast your eyes downward.

‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Miss Toni,’ we all replied.

I was fascinated by the whole idea of the royal family.

‘Do you think they’ll just use the normal theatre toilets like everyone else?’ I asked Tony Newley.

‘Oh, Irene, don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘They’re royalty. They don’t go to the lav.’

I was so naïve that I didn’t realise he was joking, and for many years afterwards I still believed that the royal family were too posh to go to the toilet!

Soon it was the night of the big performance. As I waited in the wings for my turn to dance on stage I just felt tremendously excited rather than nervous.

‘Blue fairy, on you go,’ whispered Moira Shanley.

Right on cue I ran onto the stage. The bright lights dazzled me and I could only make out the first row of the audience as the rest of the auditorium just looked very black. I took a deep breath and forced myself to remember Miss Toni’s words: