Those rescued from shipwrecks can only re-tell scattered impressions. Fearful jumps from swinging ladders. Overturned boats gripped by icy fingers. Long hours in embarrassing juxtaposition to fellow-humans so sunk in discomfort that all behaviour became possible.
In retrospect, that is how the next three years were to Fanny. She closed the shop. She was surprised at herself for doing it, surprised that ‘Elk’s’ was no more, but Flossie had to be taken to classes, and mornings had to be spent in food queues that Flossie might be properly fed; she could not run a shop as well. Heaven knows what scraps Fanny ate in order that Flossie should never go short.
Flossie became ten, she was old enough to have a licence, she was put into a troupe in a pantomime. Flossie must leave the Fordham Road ‘Girls’,’ she must share the troupe governess, Fanny must go and explain to Miss Elder. So far, Fanny had been borne up in the rush of her existence, by the knowledge that, however exhausting her life, she was doing grand things for her child. The interview with Miss Elder was not a help to one who needed all the bearing up she could have; what she said became, in the days that followed, a memory apt to give a feeling of sinking. ‘Beauty was a danger, Fanny by exploiting it was committing a sin, if Flossie came to a bad end as she assuredly would, she had only her mother to blame.’ Washing endless frilly garments, stitching at layer after layer of tarleton, fighting in food queues, struggling over her stove to make what she had been able to buy palatable, pushing her way into buses and trams to deliver Flossie, waiting in draughty stage doors to take her home, sitting on the floor of a cellar with Flossie asleep in her arms, Fanny remembered what Miss Elder had said. Later, pride covered the searing words. Flossie was one of a small troupe, Flossie danced a solo, Flossie was a juvenile star, other mothers envied. It was always a little surprising to Fanny that she could be envied, plain Mrs. Elk from the Fordham Road. Her visions were no longer dim like smoke, they were built on facts.
George, safely buried in a trench somewhere, had no place in the new world Fanny was building for Flossie. On his leaves she was glad to see him, but he was an interlude merely; all he said and did were outside the business of her life. He fussed about things which did not matter, whether he would get his trade back after the war, that the Ethbridges at number ten had lost their boy. He had two leaves after Flossie had her licence, but on neither occasion was she working, and while he was at home she did not even go to her classes. On his second leave a neighbour asked him if he was not proud of his daughter’s success. Arrived home he ruffled Flossie’s hair.
“What’s all this dancing you’re doin’ at the school? Cooking and sewing will do you more good if you want a nice husband.”
Flossie, in romper and ballet shoes, or alternatively little ankle-strapped patent leather ones for character work, learnt first to loosen up her muscles, and then to get up on her points. Gradually her knees straightened, her instep was arched but firm, her arms and hands learnt to curve. Flossie learnt to be an efficient dancer, never for a second was a movement of hers inspired by ecstasy, but always by technique. The years flicked by her marked by rises in status. From a new child to a second term one, from there to a third, and then at the beginning of her second year she had a licence. That Christmas of 1916 she became one of Madame’s ‘Twenty Khaki Kids.’ In the summer of seventeen, she was one of Madame’s ‘Ten Little Sailors,’ the Christmas of the same year she was one of Madame’s ‘Four Little Snowflakes,’ in the spring of eighteen, billed as ‘Baby Flora,’ she was Cupid in a revue, and that summer, solo dancer and singer in the Academy star troupe, Madame Elise’s ‘Twenty Little Marvels,’ and when peace was declared she was already rehearsing the part of the girl babe for a West End pantomime.
The beginning of her training Flossie disliked intensely. She liked wearing a romper, she was proud of her shoes, she liked gossiping and giggling with the other children, and she liked Saturday afternoons, when in relays the entire school worked at elocution and singing, but these were the only things she did like. She found nothing amusing in the classes. Loosening her muscles was a weary task.
“Left leg, right leg. Higher, higher. Flossie, you aren’t working. Rest, girls, Flossie will do it alone. And again, Connie dear, and again.”
Then the next phase, the lessons lengthened by half an hour, point work. Her toes throbbed, no amount of cotton wool seemed to help, often they bled. Her instep got cramp, her muscles, especially those in her calves, ached monotonously, her hands got blistered from gripping the bar, but Muriel was remorseless.
“Flossie, you aren’t working. Flossie, you can do that exercise alone. And again, Connie dear, and again.”
There were daily scenes, Flossie howled, she sulked, but always Fanny got her to her lesson. What made Flossie see any sense in what she was doing was a charity matinée. It was a large affair in aid of comforts for prisoners of war; the Academy’s share was a ballet and tableaux. All those children who were not working appeared either as emblematic patriotic figures, or as one of the allied countries, and as a finale, Flossie as the dove of peace wobbled in on her toes. The applause which greeted her was tumultuous, partly because, with an air raid the night before, and an appalling list of casualties in the paper, even Flossie in a white feathered ballet frock was a divine messenger, ‘Perhaps, some day.’ But also because as a dove, she really looked delicious. Afterwards Madame was sent a doll by one of the committee, and asked to give it to ‘that darling little Peace.’ Flossie did not care for dolls, but this was such a magnificent specimen that it was worth carrying about to inspire envy in other small girls, and it made her think. She knew that later she would earn money, but she knew from the other children how very little of that she would have to spend—but presents! That put a different complexion on things. From that moment her work improved. Muriel, seeing in Flossie those gifts which would have made of her own life such a different thing, was as unremitting in her efforts as ever, but after the matinée her adjurations changed.
“Glissade—changé. Coupé. Coupé. Passé—relevé. Mind your knee, Flossie dear. Splendid. Coupé. Coupé. Pirouette. And again, Connie dear, and again.”
Then came her licence and the rehearsals for ‘The Twenty Khaki Kids.’ ‘The Khaki Kids’ were either beginners, or older children who had remained undersized, and would continue to dance while they looked like children, but who had not sufficient talent to have any future on the adult stage. They were the least important of all Madame’s troupes, but Flossie was glad to join them, as no matter in what you were appearing the fact that you were working gave you a status in the Academy. They performed in ‘Sinbad the Sailor,’ at an outlying suburban theatre, and made their first appearance in the ship scene, springing unexpectedly out of coils of rope, a neat little row of dancing khaki figures.
One rehearsal in the theatre made Flossie suspect that she had entered a world of undreamed-of possibilities, and a week convinced her of it. The presents she received! Food was scarce, but even so, titbits found their way to Flossie. The Matron did her best to stop it. Madame was strict, she liked her children to keep themselves to themselves, holding as little intercourse as possible with the grown-up members of the cast. Ordinarily this presented no difficulties, the grown-ups finding the children a bore, and paying no attention to them except to sign their autograph books, or perhaps, at the end of the run to give them a photograph of themselves mounted on a post card. With Flossie it was different, the news of her flew round the theatre.
“I say, old dear, give us a lend of your duster. You ’ave a look when they’re re’earsin’ this mornin’, there’s the sweetest little kid comes on, right in the middle she is, you must ’ave a look.”
“Oh, this old B. of a staircase, I’m sick and tired of marching up and down it. Do they think we girls don’t know how to walk up a lot of stairs? Have you seen the little kid with the troupe, the one with the fair hair, isn’t she a love?”
The soubrette, moving two empty beer bottles, swung herself up on the edge of the bar, and patted the place beside her for her dancing partner.
“Let’s rest a moment, the old wind was never too good, but this bread we’re getting now! Have you seen the little thing with the troupe, little thing with pale hair? Well, have a look, what a bute!”
Her dresser waved a pair of pale blue silk tights at the principal boy.
“With this war on tights ’as gone to pot, I don’t know ’ow we’re goin’ to do for them an’ that’s a fact, ladder as soon as look at you.” Expertly she held them out, turned to put on. “I say, dear, that little child you told me of, oh she’s the sweetest thing, and so winnin’ in ’er ways. I was ’avin’ a bitter tea and a piece of cake when the troupe passes the door and she gave me the loveliest smile, so I gave her a bit of cake, bless her, she was ever so pleased.”
The comedian met the children on the stairs and he stood back to let them pass. Without his bonnets and bead mantles and elastic-sided boots, he was a gloomy fellow, not one to stop and pass the time of day, but Flossie, last of the queue, paused to look up at him from under her lashes, then she smiled. He leant down to her.
“How are you, my dear?”
“Very well, thank you,” Flossie whispered. She whispered because Matron was only a few steps ahead, but the comedian thought how wistful she sounded; awful hard life for the kids with getting about so difficult, and the food so bad. He put his hand into his pocket and brought out a shilling.
‘Madame Elise’s Ten Little Sailors’ did a round of the London halls. From Flossie’s point of view it was less successful than the pantomime, as there was no permanent cast to bring her presents, but during the time she worked with them she learnt how to get hold of her earnings. It started over spring clothes.
“Mum, can I have a blue coat?”
“How can you talk so silly? You know I spent all last week letting down your pink one, and it’s as good as new.”
“But I had it last summer. I want a blue one.”
“Now don’t take on,” Fanny pleaded. “Mum isn’t made of money.”
Flossie scratched at the carpet with the toe of her shoe.
“Well, I earn some, don’t I?” she muttered in a slightly shamed way.
Fanny looked flustered.
“But, ducks, you know that with the money I bank for you every week, and what goes to Madame on commission, there’s not much left for all the things I buy you, every penny’s spent on you, and a lot more besides, you know that.”
“Well, that’s what you say. I don’t seem to have much.”
Fanny allowed this dart to pierce her, she burst into tears.
“Oh, how can you talk that way, Floss, you, with all the nice things you have? I know I never seem to stop sewing and washin’ for you.”
Flossie, really ashamed, grew more defiant.
“Well, if I’ve got to go about in my old pink, I’ll stay at home.”
She never meant it, the words were just something to say, but Fanny believed her.
“Don’t talk like that, sweet, Mum’ll manage the blue for you. You must work, dear, Mum’s so proud of her girl.”
‘The Four Little Snowflakes’ taught Flossie that an audience is more than just a sea of blurred faces. Every audience varies, and has each its collective personality. The ability to feel that personality differs with artists, but there is no one who, after one entrance, cannot say, “They’re nice to-night, grand comedy lot,” or “They’re going to eat that curtain to the second act.” Flossie, spinning prettily on her points, became acutely sensitive to her audiences; she knew they were saying, “Oh, isn’t she sweet,” and when, with her three companions, she was throwing kisses and dropping curtsies at the end of her dance, she knew that it was because of her kisses and her curtsies that they were given the extra call. Then there came tangible signs of her popularity. She was the smallest of the Snowflakes, and almost every day the attendants brought her parcels marked ‘To the Little Snowflake’ or ‘To the Smallest Snowflake’ and once to ‘The Fairest Snowflake.’
As Cupid she was noticed by the critics, which meant several visits to the photographer’s, and after the photographs were published, a certain amount of fan mail. She was eleven at the time, but small for her age, and the company as usual made a fuss of her, telling each other it did no harm as she was a simple unspoilt little thing. At home, if Fanny could have criticised her prodigy, there was a different story to tell. It seemed to Flossie insulting that she, so lovely and so wonderful, should be asked to do menial things. Sometimes Fanny, rushed beyond bearing, and exhausted by long hours in the food queues, would forget, and suggest she lay the table, or make her bed. Flossie’s answer never varied.
“If people want children to do those sort of things, they shouldn’t have children like me.”
At the Academy she was the object of much discussion. Success had come to her too easily, but it was a child’s success and would not last; if she were to have any future as a dancer, hours of grinding work lay ahead of her. Muriel slaved.
“Battement—serré. Right up on that point, Flossie. Keep that right knee straight. Good. Now the other foot, straighten that left knee. And again, Connie dear, and again.”
Madame called Muriel into her study.
“Wha’ about Flossie? Wha’ about Flossie? Wha’ about Flossie?” She held out a packet of cigarettes.
“Only if she works. She has those looks, and any amount of personality, but, of course, she’s not a dancer and never will be.” Muriel puffed at her cigarette. “If she works she might be a star though, in a musical show.” She sighed. “She might be anything.”
“Wha’ about Flossie? Wha’ about Flossie? Wha’ about Flossie?” Madame asked the governess.
The governess, a Miss Edwards, was afraid of neither Madame nor anybody else. She had thought Flossie a lovely little dear for just one morning.
“The child’s a little toad. A smug little toad. So far she has always been in some show and I’ve not been allowed to upset her, and she knows it, but the first morning she’s out of work, I’m going to talk to her as she’s never been talked to before.”
Flossie knew that she was not really loved at the Academy by either teachers or pupils, but she put this down to jealousy. Sitting in a tram, homeward-bound from the theatre, she mentioned it to her mother.
“I can’t help being pretty, can I, Mum?”
“Course you can’t. Who says you can?”
“Well, just the other children, they don’t like me.”
“Spiteful cats. Don’t you mind, ducks, it’s jealousy. Mum’s wonderful girl.”
Just as the rehearsals for the ‘Babes in the Wood’ were starting, the Armistice was declared.
“Now isn’t that awkward?” said Fanny. “Your dad’ll be comin’ home.”