Only one thing I really resented; that was, among other duties, I had to mend Madame’s husband’s underwear. Even then I am overstating the case; I did not mind the mending collectively; what I minded was the mending individually—that is, I hated mending his (what are technically known, I think, as) pants. At the end of a year I “crocked up”—personally I wonder that I lasted so long—and came home for a holiday. I was then about 15, and I fell in love. Not, this time, with a small boy in the Square; not with a big boy; this was a real affair. “He” was at least twelve years older than I, very good to look at, and apparently he had excellent prospects on the Stock Exchange. My family, so far as I can remember, approved, and I was very happy. I forget how long the engagement lasted—about a year, I think—and for part of that time I was back in Liverpool. I know the engagement ring was pearl and coral. One day a stone fell out—so did the engagement. The picture “he” had drawn of us living in domestic and suburban bliss at West Norwood—me clad in brown velvet and a sealskin coat (apparently irrespective of times or seasons) vanished. He “went broke” on the Stock Exchange, and broke off the engagement—perhaps so that his love affairs might be in keeping with the general wreckage; I don’t know. I remember that I sat in the bedroom writing a farewell letter, damp with tears, when the sight of a black beetle effectively dried my tears and ended the letter.
I don’t know that this love affair influenced me at all, but I decided I was utterly weary of Liverpool. I came back to Brighton, and taught dancing there, partly on my own and partly in conjunction with an already established dancing class. It was there that I taught a small, red-headed boy to do “One, two, three—right; one, two, three—left.” He was the naughtiest small boy in the class; I used to think sometimes he must be the naughtiest small boy in the world. His name was Winston Churchill.
It was not a thrilling life—this teaching children to dance—on the contrary, it was remarkably dull, and once your work becomes dull to you it is time you found something else to do. I decided that I would. I would make a bid for the Stage.
We, or at least my elder sisters, gave theatrical performances at home—comedies and operettas—and it was during the production of one of these that I met Miss Harriet Young, the well-known amateur pianist, in Brighton.
The production was called Little Golden Hope, the one and only amateur production in which I ever took part. It was written by my brother-in-law, Ernest Pertwee, and the music by Madame Guerini, who had been a Miss Wilberforce, daughter of Canon Wilberforce. Miss Young used to come and play the piano at these productions, and I heard that she knew Mrs. Kendal! Mrs. Kendal was staying at Brighton at the time. A letter of introduction was given to me by Miss Young, and, accompanied by my sister Bertha, I went to see Mrs. Kendal.
No very clear memory of it remains. She was charming; I was paralysed with fright. If she gave me any advice about the advisability of taking up the stage as a profession, it was “don’t”—so I went back to my dancing class.
But hope was not dead! Florrie Toole, who was a pupil of my sister Emily, promised me an introduction to her father, and not only to him but to Tom Thorne of the Vaudeville Theatre as well. I made up my mind to go up to London and see them both. All this was arranged with the greatest secrecy, for I knew that my father would set his face sternly against “the Stage”. Though we might be allowed to have amateur theatricals at home, though we might teach dancing, singing, elocution, or indeed anything else, the Stage was something unthought of in the minds of parents. However, Fate was on my side. I was out teaching all day, and, once the front door had closed behind me in the morning, I was not actually expected back until the evening, so I slipped up to London. There, at the Vaudeville Theatre, I saw both Tom and Fred Thorne.
In those days there were no play-producing societies—no Play Actors, Interlude Players, or Repertory Players—and so new plays were “tried out” at matinées. One was then looming on the horizon of the Vaudeville—Partners—and it was in connection with a possible part in this play that my name and address were taken; I was told that I might hear from Mr. Thorne “in about a week”, and so, full of hope, I returned to Brighton. About a week later I received a letter which told me that I had been given a small part in Partners, and stating the days on which I should have to rehearse in London.
It was then that the question arose, “Should I tell father?” I thought it over, long and earnestly, and decided not to. I did not have to rehearse every day, and, as I had slipped up to London before, “all unbeknownst”, why not again? So, entering on my career of crime, and unheeding the words of—I think—the good Doctor Watts, who says “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive”, I used to come up to rehearsal, leaving my family happy in the belief that I was teaching dancing in Brighton!
During rehearsals I heard from Florrie Toole that she had arranged an interview for me with her father, who would see me on a certain day, at his house at Lowdnes Square. That was a real “red letter day”. For some reason, which I forget, I had taken Decima with me, and after the rehearsal I was asked if I would like to see the matinée performance of Hearts is Hearts, which was then playing at the Vaudeville. Would I like! I was given a box—a stage box at that—and there Decima and I sat, thrilled to the depths of our small souls.