Citizen Survivor Tales (The Ministry of Survivors) (8 page)

I started to despise myself and the uniform I was wearing. Where once I was delighted to see a bobby, it suddenly became very oppressive, like my chest was caving in, and I was one of them, heaven forbid what others thought of us. But the truth is, people believed, or wanted to believe we were the good guys, of course they would, people don’t want to think of the bobby on the beat being a bad apple. People will believe what they want to believe, if they want to believe someone is good they will, if they want to believe someone is wicked they will, and they will ignore anything that goes against that. Do you know what I can’t stand the sound of now? Police whistles; stupid isn’t? But they fill me with dread now.

What happened to you?

It was an absolutely stupid thing to do, but I tried having a quiet word with the Inspector, just to explain my thoughts and concerns, let him know what people thought of us. He seemed to take it all in and thanked me. The next day, it was announced that due to my age and the circumstances I was being dismissed. Because of my long-service I would receive a pension and they would ‘overlook any indiscretions’, but that was it, there was something that tried to imitate a leaving party, and then I was gone. I did try to stay in touch with a lot of them as they were my friends, but I was given a quite word that I was considered a pariah now, and my old colleagues had been advised not to have any contact with me as I was a ‘potential reputational risk’, I believe is how it was worded.

The years passed and when Coventry ended, so did the police force, and my pension. Now I scrape a living with my family here, it’s a hard life but at least it’s honest and, well, as long as I never hear another police whistle as long as I live, then I’ll be grateful. The police that exist this day, they’re a different breed to me. There are even the Blue Lampers the so-called vigilantes who seem to be constantly scrapping with the bobbies, keeping them in check. But really they’re all cut from the same cloth and as bad as each.

Bill, you may be aware, there are those within the Constabulary that claim it was in fact you who was the corrupt one, which is why you were dismissed. How do you respond to that?

I can’t take on an entire Constabulary, no one can, it is insurmountable. Remember the role of the police is fluid, flexible. As long as you tick the boxes and ‘satisfy the process’, then anything is possible.

Do you still believe in justice?

I agree that justice is blind, and probably deaf and dumb too and her scales are well off kilter. Other than that, the less said the better.

We need to get
something on Bill Dixon
, keep
digging
,
throw whatever
you can at him. If he’s not
dirty, bloody well make him dirty
.

Plant some contraband
at his house or something, use your initiative. I’m not going to have the
integrity
of my officers questioned like that,
who the hell does he
think he is.

Go through his
records
, find someone he has
antagonized
during his career, get them to
make a complaint
.
Link
him to
The Roundheads
.

Keep
sniffing
, we’ll get something on this
old
,
whistle-blowing bastard
.

I want this man in a
cell
by the end of the
week
.

Police Inspector PUGH

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MOS Archives, ref. INF9/636 (endorsed)

THE STARLET

Name: Dame Joan ‘Miss Mauve’ Creighton-Ward
Location: King’s Manor, York
Occupation: Chairwoman of the John Bull Co-operative Society/Singer
Threat level: 2
Article clearance: Silver
Case file: 55/2935/GBW

I went to see Dame Joan on a blustery day; my plans to take a stroll in her garden was not welcomed because the wind would tousle her hair. Older readers will doubtless remember Miss Mauve’s few performances with such greats as Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin but younger readers may need to consult a grandparent to find out who she is. Notwithstanding, I was ushered into the presence with much ceremony and certainly it is hard to believe, when in her rather cluttered boudoir, that Dame Joan is not a living icon of cinema rather than the rather sad old lady which I found myself interviewing. She refused a photographer as she had recently had a cold; her appearance in daylight, which she avoids as far as possible, was probably not all she hoped, as the layers of white makeup, applied one on top of the other with little recourse to soap and water in between did not show off to best advantage her celebrated ‘peaches and cream’ complexion. But, when all is said and done, she is a game old lady, marching on regardless in a world which she may not totally understand these days. If the spotlight under which she lives with Mitzi, Daphne and Lulu is not as real as she imagines, it would be a cruel visitor who would tell her so.

Thank you for taking the time to meet me, Dame Joan.

Oh, just call me Joan, darling. Excuse the clutter, I really should have the boys clear this out. It’s a bit of a squeeze but we’ll find you somewhere to sit; don’t mind the dogs, they’re old softies. Stop yapping, ladies, this lovely young woman is our guest. There, now, do you like the furniture? Baroque, Parisian, hand-crafted by Jean Charles. Louis! Louis! Get this girl a drink will you dear, some vol au vents, there’s a dear man. (
Dame Joan treats her servant like a devoted admirer; happily for the poor old lady, her eyesight prevents her from seeing his expression, which is anything but devotion)

Joan, is it true you used to be an actress?

Oh yes, a famous one at that, I was the most beautiful woman in all of the West End. My golden hair, my songbird voice, men would, and did, commit many crimes of passion for my hand. Oh what a delightful game it all was, the turn of the century, the good old days. Here, take this photo album. There’s me in ‘A Chinese Honeymoon’, that one there, that’s my first ever performance, there I am at the Empress Ladies Club too. Oh look, I’m a flapper girl in that one. Wonderful memories darling, absolutely delightful. And then film of course; only silent – I wouldn’t have any truck with those talkies. They’ll never catch on.

How did you become involved in the entertainment industry?

Well, you’d never believe it to see me now, but I used to be as common as muck, do you know. I was born into very unfortunate circumstances and a most unhappy state of domesticity; I escaped my family as soon as I could. I had nothing, nothing at all, except my beauty, and my voice. I used to sing in the pubs and was discovered by a cad named Bates. I didn’t know at the time but he was a most vulgar fellow, darling. I was young, and impressionable, with stars in my eyes and I fell for his stories of fame and riches, and he became, for want of a better word, my agent.

I never made it to the West End with him though, darling; instead I became an entertainer at the Gentleman’s Clubs. They were some dark days let me tell you and it was rarely my ballads they were after. You’d positively blush if you knew the sorts of things these married, respectable, powerful men desired in the night. Outright perverse, but, because of my beauty, I was treasured, and I was always in control, always calling the shots, yes, believe that, dear. But still, I did grow to hate these men, these church-going men, minsters some of them and I kept a little book, yes a little black book of those particularly villainous men who had come to my attention.

There was one chap, Mr. Brownlow, at the John Bull club, the chairman in fact, who was as queer as the rest of them but he had a softness and a kindness to him too. He wanted to take me away, ‘My bird in a gilded cage’ he’d call me. He knew my desires still lay in acting and singing, and he was a powerful man. He got me a few auditions and the rest is history. ‘Miss Mauve’ was born. Bates had been watching me at all my shows without my knowledge; once he even burst into my dressing room when I was alone to try to take me against my will. He was obsessed with me, on his knees in tears, thumping the ground, begging for my love, telling me he’d do anything for me, anything as long as he could be near me. I dealt with him and Mr. Brownlow pulled enough strings that it was never an issue, bless his heart.

(
At this point, Louis returned with drinks and vol au vents; he was clearly doing his best in straitened circumstances; the sherry was rather watered down and the vol au vents were empty save for a sliver of potted meat. However, Dame Joan seemed oblivious and, raddled though she might be these days, there is something in her tarnished glory that makes it impossible to upset her.)

Louis, be a dear; will you put ‘A Bird in a Gilded Cage’ on. Here darling, listen this is me, wonderful isn’t it?

(
The gramophone is as old and out of touch as its owner, but the weak voice warbling through the static still holds some of the old charm. Joan mouths silently along with the words, waving a finger more or less in time with the music. A foot taps under her gauzy wrap and one of the dogs howls in sympathy.)

Thank you for that, performance, Joan.

My pleasure, you lucky thing you. Where were we? Ah yes. My career went from strength to strength and Miss Mauve became a household name. I was the embodiment of the West End, and all the mystery and glamour that went with it. This picture of me here, long flowing blonde hair covering one eye, those lips, yes, this picture was everywhere. They were simply wonderful years. I married Mr. Brownlow and we lived like royalty in London.

But as always, the charm of a gentleman soon disappears, Mr. Brownlow turned out to be little better than Mr. Bates in the end. Mr. Brownlow simply didn’t trust me; he knew my background, you see and he became consumed with jealousy, I really did become a bird in a gilded cage, I tell you, and he hated, absolutely hated, the thought of other men pining after me. He would never say it, but I knew he was doing everything he could behind the scenes to end my career, and he managed it. There were even rumours circulating that I had died, could you believe it! Mr. Brownlow demanded I became a mother to his children but I’d told him a thousand times, due to my time with Mr. Bates and the Gentleman’s Clubs, it wasn’t possible for me to be a mother. I tried to leave Mr. Brownlow, but it seemed, I was under house arrest! Every attempt to leave would end in failure, with the punishment more severe each time, so in the end I simply stopped trying.

One day, Mr. Brownlow had that unfortunate automobile accident; do you remember it? No, darling, of course you don’t; you weren’t even born then. Drunk as a mule he was and his estate was bequeathed to me. That’s when I really began to live again. I met another chap named Mr. Pickering, who I had known from the John Bull club, not a lover mind but a friend, and my career began again. That was when I had my little flutter in the films, but the Americans were so coarse, darling, they didn’t understand my art at all, so I came straight back home.

I suppose I didn’t realise how many years had passed. Would you believe, darling, the first show I played was to an empty hall! I didn’t mind, it was nice to have the practice and I don’t think it was promoted very well. I think some people didn’t even believe I was Miss Mauve as it had been so long. Still, Mr Pickering had every faith in me; I even used some of Mr. Brownlow’s estate to buy a hall, which Mr Pickering ran, so I could perform every night. There was never much of an audience, but it’s the quality not the quantity of the crowd that matters. And then of course, darling, war came. Louis! Louis! Would you be a dear and refill our drinks, thank you sweetie.

(
The topped up sherry was even weaker, but Dame Joan scarcely seemed to notice. I do wonder, in retrospect, whether the sherry was watered down for economy’s sake, or to keep the Dame off the hard stuff for as long as possible.)

How did the war affect things for you?

Not too much for me I suppose. I remember one night playing in the hall when the sirens went off and the bombs began to fall. The handful of people in the audience fled, but, well, I’m a professional, darling. I carried on with the show, despite the protests of the band. Though how on earth anyone could appreciate my contralto with all that racket is beyond me.

I remember a meeting with Mr Pickering; he told me he wanted to expand into wholesale supplies, due to the awful rationing that was taking place. He had enough friends in the John Bull club but just needed the initial investment. As the war went on, ‘The John Bull Co-operative Society’ was born. Oh, I know lots of people didn’t approve, nothing but spivs and crooks people would say, but there was a demand, and Mr. Pickering supplied it. With their sharp looks, we brought back a bit of much needed glamour to the country and my hall, well, it was soon bustling. Miss Mauve was the talk of the town again!

(
Dame Joan’s mind is not wandering, as such, but any conversation with her needs a sharp attention to detail to keep up with her. She is suddenly concerned with her clothes for an evening out.)

Louis, Louis, would you pick me out an outfit for this evening dear, not the hat though. Thank you darling.

Where was I? Oh, yes; with the ghastly state in London, we decided to relocate to York where there was another John Bull club. I missed the old hall but the new one is just as good, if not better. With the state of the Government, people began to love the John Bull Co-operative Society, and who can blame them.

The John Bull Co-operative Society has been accused of simply being a front for organised criminality, smuggling, extortion and racketeering, Joan. How do you respond to that?

Oh, we’ve attracted the odd rogue but Mr. Pickering deals with all of that thing. For me, it’s the show business. What people need right now is glitz, and Miss Mauve does glitz like nobody’s business. I was made a Dame by His Majesty, so we can’t be that bad, can we, sweetheart?

Do you ever think back to your younger years?

Of course I do, darling, but well, I’m loving every moment still. In fact, I’m performing tonight. You should come down; I’ll get the boys to get you on the guest-list, I assume you don’t have a plus one. Louis, be a dear and play ‘After The Ball is Over’ will you? I want to practice.

(
Although the look that Joan gave me when she assumed I didn’t have a plus one was one of hardly veiled contempt, I confess to still having a grudging admiration for the old girl. She is oblivious to the way she is being used and in a way, where’s the harm? She gets to warble the old tunes and the punters get some under the counter bacon. I think anyone who remembers the poor old soul from her heyday wouldn’t wish her ill. Although, she still had a surprise up her frilly sleeve.)

Thank you Dame Joan; let me check my commitments and I’ll try to make it. One last question, do you ever think back to how your life would be different if you never met Mr. Bates? Do you miss him, ever?

No, no need for that. And how can I miss him? He’s right here, Louis Bates, isn’t that right Louis?

(
I was ushered out of Dame Joan’s boudoir by Louis, a sly smile on his lips and a hand on a buttock, which I shrugged off with no apology. The world today is a weird place, anyone would agree and getting weirder. This occasional series on the man and woman in the street is teaching me more than anything that you certainly can't judge a book by its cover; is Dame Joan a dupe and a bit of a senile old hoofer, or is she one of the most successful black marketeers the country has yet produced. Let the reader decide!)