Stella

STELLA

ERIC MORECAMBE

with GARY MORECAMBE

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the memory of my father-in-law, Major Derek Allen, who in the short time I knew him managed to teach me the many benefits of self-confidence.

Also to the doctors and staff at Harefield Hospital to whom my family are ever indebted for the five extra years of life they gave to my father.

And my thanks to Susan Mott who so patiently and efficiently typed out the final draft copy of STELLA for me.

G. M. 1986

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Copyright

About the Publisher

Introduction

It must have been about two days after my father’s untimely death that I ventured into his upstairs office.

It had taken some courage to do this, because this book-laden room was his shrine, and almost every previous time that I had entered it I had discovered his hunched figure poised over his portable typewriter, the whole room engulfed with smoke from his meerschaum pipe.

The acrid smell of stale tobacco still lingered, and would continue to for weeks to come. The silent typewriter was still sitting in the position it had been when my father had last sat in front of it. I would have paid no more attention, had it not been for the sheet of paper that caught my eye.

Headed STELLA, P. 61, there were only about eight typed lines on the sheet. I cannot wholly recall what they said, but it was enough to remind me that my father had been deeply involved in what would have been his second novel.

Intrigued, I began a search for notes, pages, anything that had been destined for the novel. It was remarkable just how much turned up considering that he had never before kept many notes. But then, as we discovered shortly after his death, it was as though he knew that something was going to happen to him, because he had tidied up most aspects of his life from taxation to photo albums.

Anyway, by the end of that day spent searching, I had gathered nearly two thirds of the manuscript – some completed, some merely in note form.

I asked my mother how she would feel about me taking on the project of finishing the novel. ‘It’s a good idea,’ she said. ‘He had spent much of his time on it. It would be nice to see it finished.’ And so my first draft of STELLA went into production.

He had often talked to me about STELLA, quoting lines from it, showing me the latest passage he was working on, and explaining that the background would be very similar to his own. I would smile and listen attentively, glad to see the pleasure it was giving him, but totally unaware that day I would desperately be racking my brain for those little snippets of information he had casually given to me.

Stella’s background is very similar to his own. She even plays in the streets he played in when he was a boy. In fact, the pattern of Stella’s career is not so different from his own, though I’m sure he won far more talent competitions than poor Stella is allowed to win in this story.

While the characters are not based on particular individuals, there is a sense of recognition about them. They suit the story so well, one can’t help but assume that they closely resemble many of the people my father had to contend with on his way to the top.

Perhaps it was because most of the work I did on this book was carried out at the same desk in the same favourite office of my father’s that I felt he was ever-present, and always there to give me a guiding hand. And during the more hilarious pieces I worked on I am convinced I could hear him chuckling over my shoulder at his own lines. So, in a strange way, I feel we worked at the book together and not independently.

The office has altered very little during the last two years and I still often use it, convinced it is a source of great inspiration to me.

My father’s notes on STELLA are now blended with mine in brown and blue cardboard folders that line a shelf of the study. They represent the months of pleasure I derived from putting the novel together. I hope you derive as much pleasure from reading it.

Gary Morecambe

1968

Chapter One

Stella stood in the wings. Her eyes were unblinking, her vision not focusing, her mind remembering the past and not caring too much about the future. Somehow she had managed to reach the theatre through her haze of confusion, to change into the right clothes and prepare to face an ecstatic audience.

But she hadn’t felt it had been she who had done these things: it wasn’t she who was the star of the show and who was supposed to now be enthralling and entertaining some of her vast following who had paid to see her that night. She remembered the letter. She would always remember that letter until the day she died. She shuddered: death wasn’t a subject she wanted to think about.

She gave an ironic laugh that more resembled a cough, and thought of her sister.

Fifteen years ago she couldn’t have begun to guess at what life held for her – the tears, the joy, and the horror.

It had started as a dream, and as if by magic had been transformed into reality.

Like the letter, she would always remember the last fifteen years of her life most vividly . . .

The change in what could only be described as a typical, unexceptional, northern upbringing of the early part of the twentieth century began in Lancaster in 1924. During that year, Stella Ravenscroft grew into a sprightly ten-year-old and her sister, Sadie, into a more subdued eight-year-old. They were inseparable chums, though Stella made sure her sister knew who was boss, and it was something Sadie would never be allowed to forget.

It was a bleak January that had hailed the beginning to that year, the city being buried beneath an unmoving thin white carpet of crisp snow. Returning home from school one evening during that month, Sadie revealed that she had heard that Tommy Moran – Stella’s childhood sweetheart – had been kissed by Molly Chadwick.

‘Whereabouts did she kiss him?’ demanded Stella.

‘On the mouth,’ innocently replied her sister.

‘No. I mean where? You know – where?’

‘Oh. Outside the tobacconist’s on’t corner of Penny Street.’

Stella threatened to give her sister a Chinese burn if she didn’t expand on her story of the event. As she roughly grabbed her wrists Sadie blurted, ‘Winnie Robinson told me.’

‘When?’

‘This morning.’

‘Tommy kissed Molly this morning, eh?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Winnie told me this morning.’ Then she added, ‘And you know that Winnie never tells lies.’

Stella released her prisoner, if only for the time being.

The familiar greyness of Corkell’s Yard loomed up before them as it always did when they neared Penny Street. It was an unremarkable collection of grim-looking buildings, and if you closed your eyes there wasn’t a single definite feature that would come to mind. Yet the two whitewashed cottages and one wooden shack that held a bench lav was home.

They pulled up short of the yard so Stella could give the tobacconist’s some scornful glances. Sadie asked her in a whisper, ‘Are you never going to forgive Tommy, now he is not pure?’

‘Them’s private matters,’ she replied brusquely, ‘and certainly not for the ears of younger sisters.’

Sadie was well acquainted with Stella’s manner and just mouthed an ‘Oh’, before digging into her pocket to pull out a boiled sweet she had been saving.

She dropped it into the snow and Stella gave a short, derisive laugh. Unabashed, Sadie bent down, picked it up, and popped it into her mouth.

Stella winced with mock revulsion, and said, ‘I’m going to tell our Mam. It’s disgusting, is that.’ She didn’t add that she was jealous she hadn’t a boiled sweet to eat.

‘Tell-tale tit, yer tongue be split,’ retorted her sister, and at once took flight in the direction of Corkell’s Yard and the safety of home. Stella was a fast runner, and in spite of Sadie’s lead they entered the tiny house together.

In the downstairs room there was a gas light, and an oil lamp on the window ledge but it was rarely lit, and now was no exception. Next to it a candle lay horizontal on a chipped green saucer, where it had fallen the previous night and hadn’t been uprighted again. Both box-like bedrooms upstairs had a candle of their own, and the one in their parents’ room had a proper candle holder.

In winter they were grateful for the cooking range as it kept the rooms warm, but in summer it kept them hot. The planked front door had a thick curtain across it on the inside, supposedly to help shield against the draughts, but it was so full of tears and holes that it had become more of a hindrance than a help.

Mrs Ravenscroft ensured that their house was kept in a sustained state of cleanliness but she didn’t extend this virtue upon herself. The range was as black and shiny as a full bottle of Guinness and the windows were washed daily. Her saying was, ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness, but in Corkell’s Yard it’s next to impossible.’

She was smiling to herself about her saying when the sound of her daughters’ feet cracking against the iced cobblestones caught her attention. Instinctively she glanced across the kitchen to a battered cuckoo clock that for many years had given out the incorrect time. It was a habit of hers to check the time. She liked to note how long it had taken them to get from school back to home and, of course, always took into account the temperamental nature of the clock.

‘Hello, Mam,’ cried both girls.

‘Wipe your feet,’ came the firm response, but it was delivered in a gentle way. They both immediately back-stepped to the doormat.

‘What’s for tea, Mam?’ asked Sadie, always first to make enquiries on the food situation.

‘Balloons on toast,’ kidded her mother with a little smile forming on her lined face.

She was a tall woman with a frail frame, and the only secret she’d ever kept was her age. She never lied about this, she merely stated that she was the same age as her sister-in-law, Mildred from Carlisle, and then lied about her age.

Her father was called Sven Ronnorf and was Swedish. Her mother, Daisy, was pure Lancashire. Both had been dead for some years, or at least, as Jack Ravenscroft would say, ‘I hope they’re dead – we buried ’em.’ Ronnorf had been a stoker on a Swedish cargo vessel that used to bring wood to the Lancaster Docks. Then, in 1885, having met Daisy several times, he proposed to her, married her, and settled in Lancaster.

Lilly was very proud, if not a little touchy, about her Swedish background. Although born in Lancaster, and unable to speak more than two or three Swedish words, none of which were clean, she would proudly tell her daughters all about life in Sweden, as though she had spent most of her own life there.

Stella and Sadie couldn’t wait to visit this mysterious land, having heard from their mother how they lived off giant black puddings and green shrimps.

‘Go on, Mam. What’s for tea?’ Sadie pressed.

‘I’ve told you once. It’s balloons on toast, and you’ll have to eat them quick before they fly away.’

‘No, Mam, truthfully,’ she pleaded. Stella always ignored all this mundane twaddle, as she called it. She knew it was all a tease and that it would conclude in them having a normal tea.

Stella peered out of the window at the house next door, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tommy Moran. Tommy was quite nice even though he was supposed to have kissed Molly Chadwick, she thought. He was certainly more likeable than his younger brother Colin. He was horrible, and his nose was always running.

‘Your father will be in within the hour and it’s his favourite, so I thought you could have a mug of tea and a biscuit to tide you over ’til he’s here.’

‘Oh, yes,’ gasped Sadie, squeezing her hands together with anticipation. ‘It’s a fry-up, isn’t it? I know that’s Dad’s favourite.’ She licked her lips as she pictured a plate full of crispy bacon, fried bread, sausages, and fried potatoes – and, of course, a mountain of brown sauce.

Stella pulled a long face that was full of disappointment. ‘And what’s up with the Queen of England, then?’ asked her mother. Sadie turned to see her sister still peering through the window onto the dimly lit yard.

‘She’s jealous ’cos Molly Chadwick kissed Tommy Moran,’ she said quickly.

‘I’m not,’ Stella screamed back at her sister, desperately enough to make her mother realise she was.

Having committed herself to this accusation, Sadie dived back in with ‘And she kissed him on the mouth.’

Stella took a swipe at Sadie but it didn’t connect.

‘Now that’s enough, both of you,’ ordered Mrs Raven-scroft, not as loudly as the girls but in an authoritative tone that demanded obedience.

‘Sadie Ravenscroft, I’ll thump you when Mam’s not looking.’

Sadie stuck out a long pink tongue through thin, compressed lips. After returning it to its standard position, she said, ‘It’s true, Mam. She’s in love with Tommy Moran.’ She looked up at her mother, expecting to see her faint.

‘I’m not, Mam, honest I’m not.’ The swelling vein on Stella’s forehead was joined by one on either side of her neck.

Mrs Ravenscroft could see her daughter trying to control her tears of embarrassment and quickly recalled the many events of her own awkward youth.

‘Well,’ she sighed, and both girls looked up to her. ‘I don’t see anything wrong with that. Tommy’s a nice boy, and if I was a young woman again I think I might give him a kiss.’

Sadie’s mouth fell open and Stella at once grew in confidence and stature. ‘In any case,’ said Stella, ‘our Sadie’s in love with Colin Moran, and he’s got a runny nose.’ Sadie began to boil inside. ‘And his nickname’s Sniffer.’ And now Sadie’s eyes nearly left her face with shock.

‘OOH!’ she swooned. ‘Ooh, Mam, I’m not, I’m not. I can’t stand him; he’s ’orrid.’ Her cheeks reddened like highly polished apples.

‘He’s a nice boy as well,’ said their mother, ‘so stop teasing each other.’

‘You like everybody,’ said Sadie in a frustrated voice.

‘Quite right, too,’ she replied. ‘And now that’s all done with we’ll set the table. You do the knives and forks, Sadie, and put a big spoon out for your dad, and you, Stella love, you’re in charge of plates and cups and the jug of water. I’ll do the lights, so pass me a taper, there’s a good girl.’ She glanced at Sadie. ‘Don’t throw the knives and forks on the table, just place them careful like. Any fool can throw ’em down.’

The gas was lit and the fire in the hearth prodded. The green velvet tablecloth had been whisked away, folded, and pushed into the nearest drawer, and the places were set on the bare wooden surface. Hands had been scrubbed and the kettle filled and put on the range to slowly come to the boil.

A firm knock at the door signalled the arrival of the master of the house, Mr Ravenscroft – or so they had thought.

Stella opened the door to see an awkward Tommy Moran filling its entrance. ‘Hello, Mrs Ravenscroft,’ he said, looking beyond Stella. ‘Could you give us right time?’ Tommy’s dark eyes fell briefly on Stella from within his round pasty face. ‘Our clock’s stopped,’ he lied.

Stella, ever the mistress of most situations, snapped, ‘Then why not go and ask Molly Chadwick?’

At this remark Sadie’s heart beat faster at the prospect of war. Mrs Ravenscroft, whose sole job in life seemed to be to defuse everything, did some mental arithmetic on her own clock and said, ‘Ten past five, and close the door, Tommy.’ He did as he was told, with himself on the inside.

Tommy was simply ‘the boy next door’ and lived with his mum and dad and brother Colin. They never had two pennies to grind together because anything spare was spent at the pub. Tommy couldn’t recall the last time he had seen his dad sober, and he had drunk so much through the years he had seemingly grown into a state of continuous unreality, his sense of decision and responsibility permanently blurred by a liquid mind.

Tommy felt a great difference from being in the Raven-scroft home than his own home. There was an undefinable warmth here: more comfortable chairs, a brighter glow from the gas light.

As he subconsciously took in the familiar surroundings the door burst open, striking him between the shoulder blades. It was Jack Ravenscroft, and he sent poor Tommy flying into the arms of Stella.

For the first time in his life, Tommy experienced the softness and scent of a woman. Mr and Mrs Ravenscroft and Sadie were there to witness the growing up of a boy into a boy and a half.

Stella shoved him away, not because she had wanted to but because she thought it was right to. She did, however, delay this action to the last possible second. ‘Hello, everybody. Sorry about your back, Tommy. Mind you, you should never stand in doorways, yer daft bugger.’

Jack moved in and kissed his wife affectionately before giving his daughters a shared hug. Tommy had never seen such a spontaneous show of affection before; this freedom of expression towards loved ones. He had certainly never seen it in his own house, that was for sure. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw his dad kiss his mum when returning from work. The only time he saw them kiss was when they came back from the pub late at night and they were a bit drunk. But then it wasn’t nice kissing, it was desperate kissing, and his mum would always say ‘you dirty little devil’, then whisper in his ear before running up the stairs, pulling her skirt down as she went. He much preferred the Ravenscroft home. He wished he lived there with them.

When the girls went to bed that night Stella dreamt that she and Tommy were walking down the aisle in church. Tommy looked just the same in her dreams as he did in real life, except he was wearing a top hat and tails. She was dressed in a beautiful gown of white, and the vicar, who was Valentino, waltzed her slowly up to her new husband. The organist played ‘Roses Are Blooming in Picardy’.

Dancing-class started at ten-thirty every Saturday morning and Stella and Sadie had been the first there since joining at the beginning of the month. Most of their friends spent Saturday mornings huddled up in a seat at the Odeon cinema, watching Flash Gordon trying to outwit Emperor Ming, and failing to do so until about chapter thirteen or fourteen. But they weren’t envious, they loved their dancing: they loved the whole idea of being in showbusiness.

Mrs Bunting, and her seventeen-year-old daughter, Donna, ran the Gaynor School of Dancing for tap, modern and American, ballet, and classical movement. They charged one and six an hour, two and six for private tuition. Understandably, not many of the parents wanted their children to have private tuition.

The dance-hall was large and cold and had a very noticeable echo. The floor they were taught on was hard and lumpy, and left many splinters in as equally many bottoms.

The girls fought their way up the spiral staircase with twenty-eight other anxious legs. On arriving in the dance-hall itself the correct procedure was to go up to Mrs Bunting, curtsey, and say, ‘Good morning, Mrs Bunting.’

Mrs Bunting was a long, thin woman who looked capable of bending into a hundred and one surprising positions, and most probably did. Outside of her work she wore all the same clothes as her idol, Miss Janet Gaynor – hence the name of the dance school – and the woman who made up these clothes for her was allowed to send her son along for lessons free of charge. The boy was destined to grow up to be either a delicate man or a sex maniac.

Also, her hair was dyed to resemble, as closely as possible, that of Janet Gaynor’s. It was some years before Mrs Bunting found a colour photo of Janet Gaynor and discovered to her horror that she didn’t have bright red hair after all. She also discovered at the same time that Miss Gaynor was sixteen years her junior.

With one sharp clap of her large swollen hands she caught the attention of her wild young class. ‘Now, children,’ she whispered, so as to avoid the repetitive pounding of echo, ‘this week we’re going to learn a new variation of the time step.’

She gave her prodigies a hopeful smile, which was duly returned by a sea of blank expressions. She tapped carefully at her crisp red hair as she examined her mothers of tomorrow. They were such a mixed bunch of girls. Some fat, some thin, some short, some tall – and just the one boy.

Their ages ranged from six to fourteen. Some had no idea of dancing and never would, while others showed minor talent but lacked the necessary enthusiasm to make anything of it.

She marched slowly behind the second row, from where she could see all thirty-four stationary legs. Mildred’s caught her eye in particular. She had short, stubby legs that had to support a solid mound of body. Only twelve, she already weighed nearly eight stone. For a moment she thought ‘poor girl’, then consoled herself by thinking ‘money in the bank’.

She clapped her hands twice, the echo making it sound like fading applause. ‘All the girls in the front row go into the far corner of the room with Donna.’ Dutifully, they accompanied her to the selected area. As they moved eagerlessly across the room she knew that there was little hope of the variation on the time step being learnt this week. ‘Now the rest of you stay with me.’ The little boy looked confused as to which group he should be with. He was an enigma, and Sadie always pitied him.

For the Ravenscroft girls the lessons went quickly. They were quite competent and, more importantly, they enjoyed their dancing and the challenge of a new step. For Mrs Bunting and daughter it dragged miserably slowly. The challenge wasn’t there any more; just the money.

Sadie and Stella were always last out of the school, both wanting the thrill of being in showbusiness to last as long as possible, and until they turned professional one day, Mrs Bunting’s dance-school was the sole representative of show-business. ‘Thank you, Mrs Bunting. See you next week.’

‘Okay, girls,’ she replied, with a tired weak smile, the kind she used on her husband when serving up his dinner in the evenings.

Tommy hid under the cover of a shop doorway near the dance-school, waiting for his loved one to come out. The two sisters were now once more traipsing wearily down the crisp, white street, their shoes crunching and imprinting themselves on the ground in a snaking trail. They huddled close together as they went through the city centre, looking like one body with four legs. ‘Hey, bugger off,’ said the shopkeeper as he waved a firm fist at Tommy.

‘It’s all right, mister. I’m just waiting for my friends.’

‘Sod you and your friends. You’re putting customers off, so bugger off.’

‘Misery-guts,’ mumbled Tommy with a grimace.

He dug his hands deep into his pockets and stepped forward into the weather. When the shopkeeper had strutted back inside he scraped up a handful of snow in his gloved hands and tossed it violently at the shop window. ‘Yer little bastard,’ screamed the man, and Tommy ran for all his worth, not stopping until he’d caught up with the girls.

They deliberately ignored him, as it wasn’t the done thing to be seen talking to the male species outside of the school grounds. They increased their pace, but Tommy matched them step for step. They swung left into the arcade, quite often using this route as a short-cut. Tommy gallantly skipped ahead of them to open the large swing-doors, but, although he was strong for his age, the doors were a lot stronger for theirs.

The springs on the doors started, very early on, to establish their superiority and the girls only just managed to squeeze through before they closed.

A little embarrassed, Tommy forced one open to let himself through, the girls now waiting for him on the other side, having decided that, although they wouldn’t talk to him, they would let him accompany them.

Just as Tommy had managed to re-open it a stream of people filed through the arcade, oblivious to the fact that he was holding the door open for his own benefit and not for theirs. Many thank yous were uttered as they barged by him.

Eventually he escaped from his ‘door duty’ and trotted back up to the girls. They stopped outside the Palladium cinema to look at the photographs of the stars. A Janet Gaynor film was now showing. ‘Well, we can guess where Mrs Bunting will be spending her evenings this week,’ said Stella with a chuckle, and her younger sister laughed – as did Tommy, which immediately made the girls go quiet.

‘Oh, come on, give us a break,’ he pleaded as the three of them walked on. ‘I’m only trying to be friendly, like.’

‘So Molly Chadwick tells me,’ said Stella in a most sarcastic tone.

‘I DON’T LIKE MOLLY CHADWICK,’ he declared in a very loud voice, which convinced Stella he was telling the truth. She was a little surprised to have brought out such a reaction in him and it gave her an inexplicable thrill. However, once she had achieved her confession she wasn’t the sort to continue torturing her victim.

‘Are you bothered about seeing the Janet Gaynor film?’ she asked him.

‘No,’ he droned. ‘It’ll be a right mushy one that. I’d rather go to the Kingsway and see The White Hell of Pitz Palu. Aye, that’ll be a grand film.’

‘Who’s in it?’ asked Sadie with genuine interest.

‘Eh?’ Young Tommy had never been asked such a technical question before. As far as he and his mates were concerned a film was a film was a film. Who starred in it was of little consequence, so long as someone did. The important thing was how the villain died. Did he die slowly and in great pain or quickly with just a little pain because he had a likeable mum who’d contracted an incurable disease?

‘I said, who’s in it?’ repeated Sadie softly.

‘I . . . I’ve forgotten.’

‘Forgotten,’ sighed Stella, picking up on his slip.

‘That’s right,’ he said defensively.

‘Well, what’s it about then?’ she persisted.

Tommy looked blankly at Sadie. He needed her support. She was gentle and kind. She gave him some support. ‘Is it a love story, perhaps?’ she assisted.

‘Bloomin’ ’eck no.’ He felt himself blush bright red. He crossed his left eye to see if his nose had gone red. It had.

‘Then it’s probably an adventure story.’

‘Aye, that’s right. They’re always adventure stories with swear-words like “hell” in it. It’ll probably be about caves and savages and furnaces . . .’ He petered out of description.

‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right,’ said Stella condescendingly. Tommy wished he hadn’t mentioned anything about the Kingsway.

They drifted by the market and stopped at the fish stall to say hello to ‘Pop’. Everyone knew Joe Billings as Pop. He was a youthful seventy; that is, he was young at heart.

Pop had a round, wizened face and kindly attitude like everyone’s grandfather should have, and this was how he came to be called Pop. He helped out Saturdays on the stall since retiring as a trawlerman a couple of years back. Sitting on an upturned crate, he was shelling a bucket full of shrimps.

Stella thought he looked like a big shrimp himself: all pink and puffy and a curved back. ‘’Ello, kids. What do you know, then?’

‘Hello, Pop. Nothing,’ said Stella. They always started conversations in this way.

They gazed hungrily at the piles of shelled shrimps in a large carton. The dancing had made Stella hungry. Tommy just loved shrimps more than anything else, and Sadie could eat anything, anytime, any place.

Pop smiled and his face wrinkled all the more. ‘Go on. ’Ave a few. I’ve plenty there.’ They didn’t need any further encouragement and dived in with eager hands. ‘Steady on, now. Don’t go spillin’ ’em.’

Pop stood up to serve a customer. ‘What’ll it be for Bob’s supper t’night then, Mrs Robertson?’

Stella nudged Sadie. ‘You’ve got more than me,’ she complained.

‘No I ’aven’t.’

‘Y’ave. Don’t argue ’bout it.’

‘Here yer are, Stella,’ said Tommy, coming between them. ‘Have some of mine.’

Stella blushed. ‘I don’t want yours, thank you, Tommy Moran.’ She gave her sister a fiery glare. ‘I want hers.’

‘Now, now,’ calmed Pop, as he returned to his position on his crate. ‘You’ve all done well enough.’

He began rummaging in his pockets and at once the children’s eyes lit up. This was the moment they liked best. Pop was famous throughout Lancaster for his giant pockets on his black great-coat. They’d been a source of much mystery to children for many years. They were always filled with ‘goodies’, and the girls had been told by their mother that they were the deepest pockets in the world – probably bottomless. They didn’t believe her, though. Maybe six or seven feet deep, but surely not bottomless? ‘Here y’are. A coupla green arras each. Suck ’em slow.’

Green arrows. Red hot peppermints. Maybe they should be called red arrows, thought Stella.

They thanked him, popped them into their mouths and with fleeting cries of goodbye, they trotted away. Pop shook his head as he put a green arrow into his own mouth.

‘You should come and watch Sadie and me dancing sometime, Tommy,’ said Stella, suddenly.

‘Oh, no. I couldn’t do that,’ replied Tommy.

‘I’m not asking you to join in, you know. Just watch us. We’re ever so good, aren’t we, Sadie?’

‘I suppose so,’ she said doubtfully.

‘’Course we are. We’re going to be dancers when we leave school: rotten, smelly, pooey school. Aren’t we, Sadie?’