Shirley (25 page)

The Count Basie telecast was very different. Count Basie was an American icon, venerated by all musicians. Kenny Clayton says, ‘At that time Shirley was not into jazz and swing. I doubt if she even realised what a great artist Count Basie was. He was one of the greatest exponents of jazz and swing in the world. To musicians his name was magic.’

But Kenny Clayton had his reservations about the idea because the two artists were so very different. Count Basie was away on tour so NBC, who knew all about his status, arranged a lightning visit for him. He would be flown in by the afternoon, televise three numbers with Shirley, and fly off again immediately afterwards. They knew just how lucky they were to have him at all.

All went well on the day. Shirley recorded four numbers in the morning and broke for lunch. Count Basie arrived as arranged, the director introduced everyone to ‘Bill Basie’,
then said to Kenny, ‘Will you show Bill how the song goes?’ Kenny said he felt like the village tailor teaching Christian Dior how to sew. ‘This is how I usually play,’ he said nervously, and tried a bar or two. Bill Basie’s creased old face split into a grin. He sat down next to Kenny on the piano stool. ‘Enough of that shit,’ he laughed. ‘Let’s try it this way.’

The atmosphere immediately became relaxed and everything went perfectly. Shirley’s song was fine and the crew applauded her. Every number went exactly as it should, with an added touch of elegance and class because Basie sat at the piano.

When it was over Shirley went upstairs to change her costume for the last number that would close the telecast. While she was up there Bill Basie left to catch his plane and everyone, including the crew, suddenly vanished.

‘Union break,’ explained the assistant. ‘They’ll be back in twenty minutes.’ Kenny, who had worked in America before, remembered that these union breaks were absolutely sacrosanct to the crew. Woe betide anyone who tried to interfere with them. At that moment, Shirley came down the stairs from her dressing room and surveyed the empty studio. ‘Where the fuck is everyone?’ she demanded to know.

The director’s assistant explained.

‘What!’ bellowed Shirley, ‘Twenty minutes! Am I expected to sit in this crummy studio for twenty minutes?’ Her voice rose with each word. Why hadn’t he the common courtesy to let her know? She’d hurried through a change of costume and make-up so as not to keep anyone waiting. ‘And what do they do?’

Kenny blushed with shame. That was not Shirley talking. It was Kenneth Hume. He had heard him saying to Shirley, in front of him, ‘Every morning you go to the mirror and you say to yourself, I am a star and you bloody well make them treat you like a star.’ There was even a trace of his husky cockney in Shirley’s voice as she belted out the insults. ‘I’d rather be sitting down on my backside like you,’ Shirley blasted at the unfortunate assistant, ‘doing nothing.’

The director’s assistant was on his feet. Would Miss Bassey like something to drink, some tea perhaps?

Shirley told him what he could do with his tea. Kenny sat and listened to this echo of Hume’s voice ringing around the studio. Kenneth Hume, you evil queen, he thought. What had he done to her? If the crew could hear her they’d give her a bad time with her next number.

Shirley, perhaps, realised this, and suddenly shut up and sat down. She had gone too far. The director’s assistant could pass on every insult to his superiors. Hume had told her not to let herself be treated like dirt but he hadn’t taught her how to extricate herself gracefully from a difficult position.

But she did learn. In a television biography she made in Monte Carlo in 1994 Shirley said, ‘I used to make terrible scenes because I thought that was the way I had to act. Now I know better. I’ve learned how to say, “Sorry.”’

Bernard Hall took a British European Airways flight from Paris to London on 12 September 1965, and by doing so, happened to become Shirley Bassey’s next tour manager. Just before take-off a man hurried up the aircraft steps. He
slid into the nearest available seat. Once they were airborne the man lit a cigarette, drew the smoke down into his lungs and exhaled with a sigh of pleasure. He glanced across at the man in the next seat and his thin face split into a wide grin. ‘Wotcha cock’ he said. Bernard Hall turned to see Kenneth Hume.

They had met now and then over the years, and Kenneth looked much the same to Bernard, the yellow hair, the gap-toothed grin. He might be thinner under his expensive suit but he was as hyperactive as ever, the same wide-boy from Soho, chain-smoking, and tea-drinking while Bernard enjoyed a Scotch. He’d been over in Paris seeing about French television for Shirley. Had Bernie done much? And Marlene Dietrich, did she do much?

Bernard brought him up to date, and told him that he, himself, had done a lot of television in France and Switzerland. He gave Kenneth some useful names and added that he had never worked in British TV, which was considered the best.

‘Think I can help you there, Bernie. How would you like a few days in November? Shirley’s got a show.’

A few days’ television would fit in nicely because the Bernard Hall Quintet was appearing during the month of October at the Edmundo Ros Club in Regent Street. It was to be the Quintet’s last appearance before they disbanded. Bernard had had enough of being manager, choreographer, lead dancer and sometimes nanny to four girls. He would probably tour with Dietrich in the new year and there was plenty of work for him at La Nouvelle Eve in Paris once the real season started on 15 September.

Before their plane landed, Kenneth told Bernard that
Shirley was opening at the Pigalle that night and suggested he call round and say hello to her before her show. Bernard said that calling round before a show wasn’t always a good idea. ‘Tonight it is,’ said Kenneth ‘because I’ve got plans. See ya.’

Bernard did see Shirley before her opening. She let him into her dressing room then locked the door so that no one else could bother her. He said he’d only stay a moment but she told him to sit down. The air was heavy with the fragrance of French perfume. An expensive bottle of Guerlain’s ‘Mitsouko’ stood on the dressing table. He watched her use it. First she dabbed the scent on to a white face cloth, then she smoothed the cloth along her arms and legs. She wore only a flimsy kimono and was nude underneath except for a G-string. Nudity never bothered Shirley. Finally she stood up, lifted her wig from the base of her neck and gently touched her hair and neck with the flannel. The scent would waft out to the audience as Shirley made her sinuous body movements on stage.

‘Zip me up, Balls, will you?’ Shirley asked pointing to a black dress embroidered with sequins round the hem and layered with organza that hung on the dress rail. It was a glamorous number with a long split up the thigh. As he settled her into the dress she mentioned that Kenneth had told her that Balls would be doing some TV with them after her show closed in November. ‘Go and stay with Kenneth,’ she told Bernard. ‘He’s got this flat in Westbourne Terrace, save you money.’

She was made up and ready for the show, so he couldn’t kiss her. Instead he touched her shoulder. Her muscles felt taut. She wanted him out of the way so she could be alone
before the show.
Merde
he said, the word that, in the best theatrical tradition, he had often used to wish her luck in the old days.

Outside in the corridor flowers were arriving, basket after basket of red roses. The dresser waiting outside Shirley’s door smiled at him as he looked at the profusion of blooms in amazement. ‘From Mr Hume,’ she said. ‘I bet there’s a thousand roses there.’

The Pigalle Theatre Restaurant was jam-packed. Every table was full. The wiry little figure of Sammy Davis Jr surrounded by his entourage filled one table, while other famous faces from the stage and screen could be seen elsewhere in the room. Dinner was over, there was noise and clatter as the waiters cleared away the remains of the dessert. They worked swiftly, they had to finish before Shirley came on. Every trolley must be wheeled out and the kitchen doors firmly closed. There must be no waiter service when Miss Bassey was on. Shirley had kept her vow that she would never be ‘thrown in with the dinner’.

A small stage complete with microphone was silently moved out on to the dance floor in front of Alyn Ainsworth and his orchestra. Kenny, directing the orchestra, was at his place at the piano. There was a feeling of expectancy as the audience sat back in their chairs and waited for Shirley’s entrance. Through the haze of cigar smoke Bernard Hall saw Kenneth Hume waiting for him at the back of the restaurant. Just as he’d said, he was there in Tray Alley, the strip of carpet where the waiters plodded back and forth in and out of the now closed kitchen doors. Kenneth was combing his yellow hair ready for action. He needed an audience and here it came.

There was a roll of drums and a voice announced, ‘Miss Shirley Bassey’. The applause grew, a woman yelled, ‘Shirley I love you.’ Two women fans jumped up and clapped furiously. Screams of joy, waves of applause and Shirley was into her ‘On a Wonderful Day Like Today’ routine.

‘She looks great,’ said Bernard.

Kenneth nodded towards the spotlights. ‘Rose pink crossed with ice blue.’ The ice blue touched her skin with a frosty glow and made it look lighter, and the pink gave her radiance. Kenneth, however, wasn’t going to waste time with words or listening to Shirley, he was already striding off at high speed to the furthest periphery of the room, Bernard hurrying beside him. As they moved, Kenneth kept up a constant flow of information about the song that Shirley would sing on TV, the one that Bernard was going to fit into a dance routine.

‘Does Shirley like it?’ Bernard asked.

‘I like it,’ said Kenneth.

Bernard would much rather have sat down and listened to Shirley singing than march back and forth with this human dynamo. Kenneth suddenly stopped dead and held up his hand. ‘Shush! Just listen to this!’ Shirley announced her next song. ‘It’s called, “The Second Time Around,”’ she said, ‘And it’s for the man I’m going to marry.’

There was a brief hum of surprised expectancy from the audience, who then fell silent as Shirley spoke again. ‘The man I’m going to marry is my ex-husband, Kenneth Hume.’

The fans leapt into action, screaming with joy. Those who knew Kenneth were less entranced at the news, but
applause nevertheless swelled through the restaurant. Everyone clapped and chirruped with delight. An engagement! Alyn Ainsworth played the first bars of ‘The Second Time Around’, and Shirley sang.

‘What an actress,’ said Kenneth with pride. ‘She’s good, Bernie, ain’t she?’

Bernard was thoroughly bemused; living in France and out of touch with Shirley in recent months, he hadn’t heard about their divorce. ‘But you’re already married,’ he said.

‘Nah,’ said Kenneth. ‘We got divorced last February, didn’t we. Now we’re getting engaged. Wait till you see the ring. The press are coming backstage. We got champagne and roses.’ He grinned at Bernard.

‘You’re joking,’ said Bernard.

Kenneth winked at him. ‘Keep it under your hat, Bernie boy.’

Bernard remembers that he gazed at Kenneth in disbelief. Was he insinuating that this was a publicity stunt to get Shirley’s face on the front page? To promote some recording or other? Then he told himself to get real, this was showbiz after all.

Next morning there were pictures on the front page of the newspapers showing Shirley with her arms round Kenneth’s neck, her cheek pressed to his, saying to the press, ‘We are very much in love.’ She was wearing an enormous square-cut diamond engagement ring.

The
South Wales Echo
took the event very seriously; after all, Shirley was their national treasure. ‘There were so many flowers at the Pigalle finale that it looked like Covent Garden,’ ran the write-up, ‘and Shirley’s dressing room was banked with one thousand red roses from Mr Hume.’ Said
Mr Hume to the
South Wales Echo
, ‘I didn’t propose to Shirley – I didn’t need to. We are both so much in love and I think we always have been.’

The quote continued, ‘We haven’t set a date for the marriage but I am leaving for America on Wednesday and won’t be back for about a month. Shirley will be appearing at the Pigalle at a record-breaking salary of three thousand pounds a week.’

It was all wonderful publicity for Shirley’s eight weeks at the Pigalle and any other career moves Kenneth might have been planning. Michael Sullivan, on reading about it in the press, wondered if Kenneth had bought the one thousand roses on a sale or return basis.

Shirley came to Bernard’s opening at the Edmundo Ros Club in Oxford Street, after her own performance at the Pigalle was over. With her were two men from the Pigalle; Kenneth was still in America. Before she left, Shirley invited Bernard to go dancing with her the following night after both their shows were over.

Five extraordinary nights followed. Each began in the same way: Shirley and Bernard were picked up at the Pigalle and driven by limousine to a penthouse flat at the Dorchester Hotel. Their hosts, three gentlemen from one of the Gulf States, awaited them. They were enormously rich and wanted to enjoy London night life in ideal company. Shirley and Bernard would be offered a glass of champagne, then it was dinner at the private restaurant in the Dorchester. It was a very social meal where everyone laughed and made jokes. The hosts drank nothing but orange juice and mineral water. After dinner, the party would drive to the Colony Club to dance, Bernard always
partnering Shirley. He said of those days, ‘There was no better ballroom dancer than Shirley. She could follow like a dream. She was a natural.’ They both loved dancing and relished being taken around in great style and luxury just to enjoy themselves.

‘To cool off,’ recalled Bernard, ‘we would return to the table and drink whatever we wanted, champagne or mineral water or even lemonade. Shirley would crack jokes, pull the legs of the gentlemen from the Gulf, throw in a bit of sexy talk, and we’d all laugh uproariously. She was once again like the girl I’d first met years ago. Young, after all she was still in her twenties, happy and laughing. The serious woman always in control vanished, and the real sweet Shirley was back again, enjoying herself.’