Film Stars Don't Die in Liverpool (2 page)

‘Don’t take me back to that hospital, Peter.’

‘No, I won’t,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

We sat on the bed together in silence until Jessie came into the room.

‘Gloria. Hello. It’s me.’ Jessie’s smile froze, she seemed uncertain what to say. ‘We all travelled here together. Joe’s downstairs.’ She turned towards
me and whispered, ‘Peter, he wants to speak to you.’

‘There’s someone on the telephone,’ Joe said when I joined him at the desk. ‘He wants to have a word.’

He handed me the receiver and then he walked away.

‘I’m a consultant from the hospital here. I understand that you’re a friend and so I’ve been asked to have a word with you.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid Miss
Grahame has a cancer. It’s about the size of a football. She should be operated on immediately.’

‘Is she going to be all right?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ he answered, ‘I’m afraid that it’s quite serious.’

Everything else evaporated, only the taste of nicotine and stale breath lingered on the mouth piece.

I returned to Gloria’s room.

‘Everything okay?’ Joe was standing just inside the doorway.

I could tell by the way he spoke that he knew what I’d just been told. I nodded my head in reply.

‘Gloria –’ I sat close to her on the bed – ‘you need to be looked after. You can’t stay here alone.’

‘Are you gonna stay here with me, Peter?’

‘No, not that,’ I said. ‘I think you should go to the hospital.’

‘I’m not going to do that, Peter.’ Her voice turned earnest and fearful. ‘That doctor’s done this to me. He doesn’t like me,’ she cried.
‘Don’t take me to that hospital. I’m gonna open in the play.’

‘Gloria.’ I held her hand and stopped her. ‘I’ve just spoken to the doctor. He’s told me that you’re ill.’

She fell silent and started to listen.

‘He wants to get you better. Then you can do the play. We all want you to do the play but we want you to get better. Then you’ll be able to do the play.’

She looked round at Jessie and then at Joe until she rested her eyes upon me.

‘Okay, Peter,’ she said. ‘Take me to Liverpool.’

‘You make it sound romantic.’

‘But it is. It’s just gotta be.’ Then she did it again. Beginning with a slow intake of breath, after which her lips began to quiver and then took shape for a passionate
release of sound. ‘Liverpooool,’ she said. ‘I’d really like to live there.’

I laughed.

‘Peter,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t be so mean.’ Then she snatched hold of the shade of the table lamp and twisted it round so that the letters were facing the wall,
‘I don’t like people staring.’

‘You wanted to come here,’ I reminded her.

‘Well, now I want to go home again. Fancy putting my name on a lamp.’

The practice did seem bizarre. This wasn’t a place in which to be discreet but the restaurant was fun and flashy and part of the whole New York glamorous showbiz scene. Most of the tables
had lamps on them, lit up, advertising the names of the famous faces who occasionally would be seen sitting there. Sometimes the wrong person would be seated beside the wrong lamp causing a lot of
displeasure and confusion or, for some, absolute delight – as was the case with the two people at the next table, wide-eyed and self-conscious, sitting on either side of
LIZA
MINNELLI
. However, sitting opposite was the real Ethel Merman, as well as her lamp, surrounded by admirers. One of them had accidentally knocked her shade askew so that the ‘R’
had fallen down between the ketchup and the napkins.

‘Look. That’s really funny,’ I said. ‘Somebody’s knocked off her “R”.’

Gloria livened up. ‘That’s a good idea,’ she said and began pulling off the stick-on letters from around the side of her shade. Then she twisted it round into view.

‘
G O IA RAHAM
’, it read.

Sabotage proved to be ineffective. Just then a man with an entourage passed by the table and stopped to say hello.

‘You look faabulous!’ he screamed. ‘Welcome back to New York.’

‘Oh, thank you. Thank you.’ Gloria smiled and looked seductive. Then instantly, almost automatically, she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and threw her hair back,
then to one side. That was her look – the ‘Grahame’ look.

Though some people might not distinguish her name or maybe had forgotten it, most knew her face from countless films of the 1950s, skulking up to Humphrey Bogart in
In a Lonely Place
, or
mixing drinks for Lee Marvin in
The Big Heat
, before getting scalding coffee thrown at her. She was always regarded as a film actress of considerable worth. Although her best work was in
little known films such as
Crossfire
and
Sudden Fear
, she received recognition for her performances in the famous ones, winning an Oscar for her part in
The Bad and the
Beautiful.
She was as funny as Ado Annie in
Oklahoma!
and wise-cracking as the elephant girl in DeMille’s
The Greatest Show on Earth.
Good at playing the floosie and the
moll, she was the epitome of the tart with the heart.

‘Peter,’ she said, when the group had passed by, ‘I think I’d like to go.’

We left by way of the lavatories and avoided having to go round the famous tables saying innumerable goodbyes.

‘That’s not a restaurant. It’s an anti-restaurant,’ she said and marched away.

I lit a cigarette then followed her along the street.

‘Hey,’ she said when I caught up with her. ‘Let me take a blow.’

‘You look like Lauren Bacall when you smoke,’ I told her and passed the cigarette.

‘Oh thanks,’ she replied, then threw it in the gutter. ‘Fancy being labelled on a table,’ she continued. ‘I feel like some kind of freak.’

We stopped when we reached 9th Avenue and waited for the night dustcarts to pass before we crossed the street. A fast shiver, almost orgasmic, vibrated my body. I was excited to be in New
York.

In just over a year so much had changed dramatically. From living alone in London, working in a junk shop at the corner of the street whilst trying to find work as an actor, now I was in New
York and involved in a relationship which had changed my life.

Gloria held on to my arm while we sauntered over the road to walk the few blocks down to 43rd.

Although I didn’t know the city well, I recognized a very special New York night. It was quiet and it was still. The air was cool and almost smelled sweet, helped by the breezes coming
across from the Hudson River.

‘Look up,’ I said. ‘Ah, the stars are in the sky.’

‘Yeah,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘That’s where they should be, I guess.’ She gave me a sultry look and strutted on ahead to the apartment block.

She always dressed the same. Mostly wearing blue jeans and black suede stilettoes, white shirt with black tie and a black cotton jacket. She didn’t have many clothes; she found it
difficult to choose them. She either took over other people’s or wore what she was given. One night at the theatre, wearing her usual outfit, she was spotted by a man who gave her a gift of
his very own fur coat – he wanted her to look like a ‘movie star’.

‘Oh Peter. You bastard. Don’t be so horrible. Don’t be so cruel!’ she squealed when I crept up behind her and startled her outside the elevator.

‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Forget it,’ I said. ‘Only trying to make you smile.’ She sulked all the way up to the twenty-fifth floor. I had to turn away. Her petulant
moods never failed to make me laugh.

I knew why she was upset but I thought that she had overreacted. It was such a silly thing. Earlier that day we’d been walking through Greenwich Village when we were stopped on the street
by a man who invited us into his shop. It was called ‘Ron’s Then and Now’. The walls were covered in posters and photographs of film and theatre stars. He brought out a box and
began to show Gloria photographs of herself from her early films.

‘Look at this one, Gloria,’ he enthused. ‘It’s from
It’s a Wonderful Life.
It was taken in 1946.’ Gloria looked horrified.

‘No, it wasn’t,’ she told him. ‘That’s a mistake. It should be 1956.’ She bought all the photographs and we quickly left.

She didn’t like attention being drawn to the fact that I was more than twenty years younger than she was.

I knew that her mood would eventually warm once we were back inside, after she’d been to the bathroom to re-fresh her make-up and I’d put her favourite music on the tape machine
– Elton John’s ‘Song for Guy’.

Gloria had spent little time in her rented apartment over the last two years. She’d been away from New York, either working in the theatre in England or filming in California. The rooms
felt unlived in and had very few pieces of furniture; the bedroom had only a bed and a telephone; the living room was almost empty, but was dominated by a spectacular view – a vast panorama
of the New York skyline in shadows and neon. I spent a lot of time looking out of the window, I was captivated, mesmerized by the down below, the continuous performance, the scenes, comings and
goings on 42nd Street. I propped myself up against the glass.

‘What’s that?’ I asked when she emerged and joined me at the window, looking stunning in a silk kimono.

‘The Chrysler Building,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it pretty?’ Then, at last, she smiled.

The beautiful art deco building with its incredible ornate curves was prominent in the sky. We looked out onto the night.

Except for the twinkling of distant lights and the sudden glare of illuminated signs telling us how far we had to go, my journey back to Liverpool from Lancaster was
unmemorable. My mind was blocked with thoughts of Gloria. I hadn’t wanted to leave her behind.

‘It’s going to be a long journey back,’ Joe had said to me at the hotel. ‘I’m not going to be speeding down the motorway with Gloria like she is, lying in the back
seat of the car. I’ll be taking it slow. If I was you I’d take up that offer of a fast ride back so that you’ll make it on time for yer play. Me and Jessie’ll look after
Gloria. We’ll make all the arrangements to leave this hotel and take her back to me ma’s. I just think you ought to get back as quick as you can.’

‘Why did you bother to turn up? You could have just phoned yours in,’ Geoffrey, one of the actors sneered, as I rushed through the stage door.

Old Jack, the stage manager, looked up as I passed his office. ‘You’ve got twenty minutes!’ he shouted.

I quickly went through my preparations for the night’s performance. Undressing, then dressing, and gathering together personal props. The dressing room was empty except for Eric, who
didn’t go on until the second act. He looked up from his book and shrugged, as if to say ‘Who cares?’. Then he rolled a cigarette.

Downstairs, behind the stage, Linda, playing her first part since leaving drama school, was practising her yoga in the way of Geoffrey, who was pacing back and forth going over his lines. I
disappeared into the blackness of the wings, avoiding my friend Gil, the leading actress, who I knew wanted to talk. We’d normally use this time to discuss in detail everything we’d had
to eat that day. But tonight I needed a few minutes alone before the start of the first act.

The play dragged on. I was anxious for it to end. When it did I left the theatre as quickly as I could.

The city was particularly quiet and empty, even for a Tuesday night. There was a gale blowing through the precinct. The wind was cutting and wet. I started across the square, through the passage
that runs past Marks & Spencer, and turned the corner into Church Street, where I thought I would find a taxi. There were three of them huddled together for company with their ‘For
Hire’ lights dimly lit. Ten minutes later I was home.

The house was in darkness, but halfway up the path I could see flickers of coloured light, reflections from the television, coming through the net curtains of the downstairs living room
window.

As I took my coat off in the hall I could hear voices in the kitchen, which came to an abrupt silence the moment I opened the door. Joe, Jessie and my mother were gathered around the table.

‘Oh, it’s all right,’ my mother said, and her serious expression relaxed. Then in a hushed voice she added, ‘Shut that door. We’re talking. I thought it might have
been your father.’

‘The last time I saw him he was asleep in front of the television,’ Jessie informed.

‘Good. That’s all right then,’ my mother decided. Then she froze her expression dramatically and listened for any noises from the living room, just to make sure. ‘You
know what your father’s like,’ she explained. ‘He doesn’t like talk.’

I closed the door behind me and leant against the fridge.

‘Well, this is certainly a turn-up for the books,’ my mother announced. ‘I’m going to the other side of the world next week! I didn’t expect anything like
this.’

‘Where’s Gloria?’ I asked.

‘She’s sleeping,’ Jessie said. ‘She’s tired after that journey. It took a long time, didn’t it, Joe?’

Joe nodded silently.

‘Gloria’s very sick.’ My mother shook her head from side to side. ‘I could see as soon as I opened the door to the girl. I’ve seen that look before. I know
what’s wrong with her.’

‘Which room is she in?’ I said.

‘She’s in the middle room.’ My mother pointed to the ceiling.

The house, like a lot of the Victorian-built houses in the neighbourhood, had been converted into flats. There were three of them – the downstairs flat, the upstairs flat and the top flat.
My sister Eileen and her husband had bought the house in this condition but had never reconverted it because they unexpectedly went to live abroad. So my mother and father, after living for years
in a council house, were invited to move in. They welcomed the change but, without my sister there, they were confused as to which part of the house they should actually live in.

My mother preferred the downstairs flat because it was ‘easier’ – the kitchen was bigger than the others and the garden was useful for hanging up the washing, and provided
another exit to the street. She would, however, sometimes move into the upstairs one for Christmas or Easter, or if ever she got fed up and just fancied a change. Otherwise it lay empty, except for
visiting family members like myself. The top flat, the biggest, was rented out to students who were often to be heard singing Gilbert and Sullivan; they were practising for their end of term
production of
The Pirates of Penzance.
The room which Gloria was in was a kind of no-man’s land, halfway up the stairs, leading off a landing at the back of the house, and directly
above my mother’s kitchen. It was called the ‘middle room’; the room where people stayed when they only came for a short time.