Shirley (26 page)

Every night after the dancing was over and their hosts had departed, Bernard would see Shirley home to Chester Square. He was never invited in; it was always about four o’clock in the morning and they were both exhausted. Bernard had no idea how this invitation from the ‘three wise men’ had been initiated. It wouldn’t have occurred to Shirley to tell him, but clearly, she was the real star of their evenings, the centrepiece admired by their hosts.

On the last night, when he dropped her off, Shirley said, ‘Why don’t you come round and see my house about twelve tomorrow, Balls?’

As Bernard stood on the doorstep ringing the doorbell of Shirley’s home he reflected that whenever he met her, months, even years, might have passed, but she always acted as if he’d never been away and was just pleased to see him again.

The butler who let him in was black, tall and elegant and wore a starched white jacket with gilt buttons and black trousers. He said, ‘Please follow me. Madame is upstairs.’ Bernard saw at least twenty of Shirley’s gold and silver discs decorating a wall on the way upstairs. Shirley was sitting up in bed with her breakfast tray in front of her, and he remembered the nineteen-year-old girl who had said to him, ‘Balls, when I’m rich I shall always have breakfast in bed.’ She’d made it; she was rich. Her bedroom was white and spotless, very feminine and very expensive. There was white lace on the bedcover, white lace edging the lawn pillows. The carpet was so white one was almost afraid to walk on it.

Shirley noticed his pleasure as he looked around and asked him to open the walk-in cupboards that lined the room. Each one was a small room in itself, meticulously tidy. There was one for evening gowns, another for performance costumes, one for suits, others for day dresses, sports clothes, shoes and furs. No wonder he had always called Shirley, ‘Norah Neat’. She had always been fanatically tidy.

When he finally sat down Shirley told him that she’d talked on the phone to Kenneth Hume in New York and he’d suggested that as Bernard had ‘looked after’ Marlene Dietrich on tour, he might be the ideal person to look after Shirley on her forthcoming tour in January. He’d talk to him about it when he got back from America. ‘What’s Marlene like on tour, Balls?’ she asked.

‘She’s just as tidy and neat as you are. She likes men just as you do, and she loves gossip.’ It crossed his mind how alike these two women were in several ways, though
dancing with Marlene was never as much fun as dancing with Shirley.

Their chatting was interrupted by a sudden commotion on the stairs outside. In raced a small noisy girl followed by a plump and breathless nanny. They were Samantha, aged three, and Thelma, her nanny, who had difficulty grabbing the naughty three-year-old. Samantha was quite a handful. She was quite different in looks from her older sister, Sharon, who was at day school. Samantha had light brown curly hair and dark blue eyes. She didn’t look like her mother either.

When they had gone, Shirley told him that both girls and their nanny would be coming along on the first part of the Australian tour: ‘I always promised myself that one day my children would travel with me.’ They talked about the tour, and about America, where it would finish.

Shirley had been among the entertainers who took part in the 1963 Second Anniversary party for President Kennedy. She was one of the most applauded stars, singing ‘Everything’s Coming Up Roses’ and ‘The Nearness of You’.

President Kennedy was probably Shirley’s favourite, but she had an autographed picture of herself with President Nixon taken later in a place of honour in the hall of her home.

‘Did you know?’ asked Shirley ‘that I sang at the White House for President Kennedy? It was a big party. Funny how it came about. His wife, Jackie, had heard me sing in the Persian Room in New York. She raved about me, imagine! Go on,’ she laughed, ‘now match that, Balls.’

‘I can’t,’ said Bernard, ‘the best I’ve done is Grace Kelly.’

‘The best I’ve done,’ said Shirley, ‘is having my two children. They were the two happiest times of my life.’

‘Better than the Inauguration party?’

‘Much better.’

KENNETH HUME RETURNED
from America in a good mood. Shirley was signed up for Las Vegas and the Royal Box nightclub in the Americana Hotel in New York. Bernard was going to choreograph the ‘La Bamba’ number for Shirley’s television show and he was going to ‘look after’ her on her Australian-American tour. They’d leave in January, but meanwhile, Bernard would stay in Kenneth’s flat in Westbourne Terrace.

The night of a thousand roses, the proposal of a second marriage and the diamond engagement ring were never mentioned. Shirley wore the ring and if a journalist asked when the wedding would be, she smiled sweetly and said nothing. Then, just before her tour of the Philippines, Shirley revealed to the press that she had cancelled her plans to re-marry her ex-husband, Kenneth Hume.

‘We’ve decided against remarrying, we’re much better friends as we are,’ said Shirley. Bernard found that Kenneth Hume was quite easy to live with. Just as Shirley’s house in
Chester Square, Belgravia, was exactly the right address, Kenneth’s flat in Westbourne Terrace was slightly suspect. It was too near Paddington Station and the area was nicknamed ‘Hooker Heaven’ due to the prostitutes regularly plying their trade right down to the Bayswater Road and Hyde Park. As soon as Bernard closed the front door behind him to go out, Daphne and Ruby, two of the regulars, always made a beeline for him. ‘Evening, Ruby. How’s tricks?’ ‘Hello, dear,’ Ruby would reply. ‘Bit slow. Anything for you?’

‘No thank you.’

They got even shorter shrift from Kenneth who wasn’t interested in girls.

Bernard found the flat rather spartan but scrupulously clean. It smelt of cigarette smoke – which would never have been welcomed by Shirley, had they lived together as man and wife.

Kenneth’s private life was always kept that way. When Bernard once walked into Kenneth’s bedroom he saw a short bamboo cane leaning against one wall ‘What are you doing?’ he asked. ‘Growing tomatoes?’ Kenneth knew what Bernard was implying.

Living in Kenneth’s flat Bernard was sometimes awakened by voices in the middle of the night. He wished Kenneth would be more careful because one of these lads could seriously damage Kenneth’s career and his way of life with a newspaper headline.

One day Kenneth was so ill that he had to take to his bed for a time but tried to hide that he was sick. This was one of the keys to Kenneth Hume – his secrecy, the pretences, his desperation, contributed to the cruelty with which he
ruined relationships. He was a manic depressive but he did everything he could to keep in control and not allow depression to interfere with his life until, as now, it suddenly attacked him. Bernard saw him lying in bed, curled up in misery. ‘Go away, Bernie, leave me alone. You can’t help, no one can. Go away.’

Kenneth wanted no one to see him like that, so vulnerable and pitiful. ‘He looked like a frightened little boy,’ Bernard recalled. His doctor came and saw him and, when he was better, Kenneth once more became his difficult, unpredictable, sometimes maniacal self, and the last thing he wanted was to be reminded of this terrible weakness.’

Between rehearsals for a BBC TV show, Shirley was auditioned for a leading role in Lionel Bart’s new musical,
Twang
. Bernard went with Kenneth to watch her go through the paces and realised that he knew rather more about staging a musical than Kenneth Hume did. It needed a man like Jack Hylton to get a musical off the ground, somebody who gave the kind of blood, sweat and tears that Kenneth Hume did not possess. Shirley did not read well for
Twang
and Bernard realised that she needed speech and acting lessons for which she didn’t have time. However, none of it mattered on this occasion for
Twang
didn’t survive as a show.

Kenneth was now determined to find a musical for Shirley, but there were others who saw great film possibilities for her. The distinguished director Sir Carol Reed, world renowned for films such as
The Third Man
, was to make the film version of
Oliver!
Reed wanted
Shirley to play the role of Nancy, the tragic heroine, whose ballad ‘As Long as He Needs Me’, from the original stage show, had generated a chart-topping hit for Shirley. It was a wonderful choice. Shirley’s voice and personality would have lit up the screen every time she appeared but, alas, Columbia Pictures finally turned down the idea on the grounds that audiences in America, especially in the south, might be offended when Nancy, if played by a dark-skinned woman, was murdered by Bill Sykes.

It was a real lost opportunity for Shirley.
Oliver!
would have been her entrée into the film world, and one can only speculate what that might have led on to.

The Sunday finally arrived in November 1965 when Shirley Bassey’s ‘Show of the Week’ was to be recorded for the BBC. Bernard had choreographed ‘La Bamba’ with his four male dancers, and the show was to be performed before a live studio audience. It would not, however, be shown to television audiences until nearly a year later, on 8 August, 1966.

Everyone turned up for rehearsal on Sunday morning: Shirley, Kenneth Hume as her manager, Bernard Hall with his four dancers and Kenny Clayton with his orchestra. Kenny had assembled a group of musicians especially for this recording – a common practice then and now.

By the time they got round to the final rehearsal before recording, the daylight had died and the audience queuing outside the theatre was getting very cold. Shirley had got through half of her numbers and ‘La Bamba’ was next on the list. Kenny Clayton was enjoying himself; the music was very good and Shirley looked great in her white tasselled dress. Everyone was happy.

Bernard, standing in the wings, was less happy as he watched the number begin. Getting through a long programme is always like walking a tightrope. Fall and you’ve blown it. And this number, ‘La Bamba’ involved dancing as well as singing. He was worried that Shirley might miss a step. Of course, the boys would cover up for her, but she’d get angry. Angry with herself, angry with the dancers, and angry with the song.

‘La Bamba’ began well enough. Shirley moved gently back and forth as she sang, and the four dancers stepped up the tempo of the dance as Shirley’s song took on increased power and vigour. Then she missed a step. She stopped dead. ‘Ken—neth . . .’ when she was angry she always drew his name out, syllable by syllable, painfully, through her teeth. Her voice rose above the music. ‘I can’t do it. Stop!’

Kenny Clayton brought the orchestra to a halt. Everyone froze. In the fifth row of the stalls, the best position for music and sound, Kenneth Hume jumped to his feet. He grabbed the back of the seat in front of him and shook it as if he wanted to wrench it apart. ‘Madam!’ he yelled, ‘What the hell are you up to?’

‘This song,’ Shirley shouted back, each word loud and clear. This bamba crap. Take it out. I hate it.’

‘You didn’t hate it yesterday.’

‘I hate it now. Take it out.’

Kenneth removed his cigarette from its holder. He stubbed it out carefully, inserted another, lit it, took a deep painful drag, then raised his head and shouted ‘It’s in and it stays in.’

This was Kenneth’s song. The one he had engaged Bernard to choreograph, the number that
must
be shown
on television with Shirley singing and dancing. The first step towards Shirley’s musical produced by Kenneth Hume. He had to keep it in.

Shirley clasped her hands together and began to rock back and forth. ‘Bastard,’ she screamed. ‘Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!’

‘Miss Bassey,’ Kenneth yelled. ‘Go to your dressing room.’ Then he turned to the orchestra. ‘Gentlemen, take fifteen minutes break.’

Shirley swayed and two of the boys who had danced behind her caught her before she fell. Bernard and the boys helped her to her dressing room where they laid her on a couch. Everyone started looking for a blanket, or something to cover her with, because she was trembling.

Kenneth Hume, still smoking his cigarette and looking tight with anger marched in. ‘You’ve got a full orchestra waiting for you out there,’ he snarled.

Shirley closed her eyes. ‘So what? I’m the star.’

He surveyed her. ‘Twinkle twinkle,’ he said sarcastically.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. ‘I’m in pain,’ she whispered. Bernard, looking over Kenneth’s shoulder thought that Shirley did look very frail, and Kenneth realised she was ill. He made the right decisions at once. The show was cancelled and the disappointed people queueing outside were sent away. Shirley’s dressing room became a hive of alarmed activity.

An ambulance arrived. Kenneth and Bernard got in and sat opposite Shirley, prone and wrapped in blankets, and the ambulance took them to the London Clinic. Dr Ratner, Kenneth’s physician and a well-known figure in London society, awaited them. Finally Shirley was wheeled away to
her room. Bernard bent over her to wish her well. He could have sworn that she winked at him.

A few days later it was reported in the
Evening Standard
that Miss Shirley Bassey had left the London Clinic after a few days rest. On Christmas Day 1965 at Chester Square, Thelma, the children’s nanny, cooked a splendid Christmas dinner for Shirley, Kenneth, Bernard and the two girls. There was a Christmas tree, and presents for the children and as Bernard left, everyone said, ‘Another few days and we’ll all be in the sunshine.’

In January 1966 Shirley and her two daughters, Samantha and Sharon, accompanied by the new tour manager, Bernard Hall, musical director Kenny Clayton, and the children’s nanny, Thelma, arrived at London airport en route for Sydney, Australia. The press photographers were waiting for the happy little family. They looked a picture: Shirley in a black and white checked coat with a white lamb collar and little cap to match, Sharon in a flowered coat and hat, and the baby, Samantha, dressed up with little boots and mittens against the January cold.

Shirley, smiling and maternal, said, ‘It’s wonderful to take my children all over the world with me.’ Reminiscing in later years, Shirley said that her tours were always mixed with sadness for, as her children grew older, they had to stay at school and that is when trouble started. ‘The hardest thing of all,’ says Shirley, ‘was saying goodbye to my girls.’