The Spice Of Life Elsie always sat in that chair. Well, I can’t tell you for certain that she always sat there – I mean, I wasn’t always there myself. But what I can say is that every time I visited the home, she was sitting in that same chair by the window. So I suppose it’s reasonable to think that she sat there when I wasn’t there as well, isn’t it? Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. Not now. My Granddad was in there the best part of twenty years; that’s who I was visiting, and that’s how I met Elsie Tyler. Strange thing was, her and my Granddad never talked to each other. I couldn’t understand it – not then anyway. My Granddad was a lovely man, always friendly and chatting to people. In all the years I knew him, she was the only person I can remember who he didn’t seem to like. I asked him about it several times, but he wouldn’t be drawn on it. He could be an awkward bugger at times. Sometimes, when I was there visiting, Granddad would either be asleep when I got there, or else doze off while we were talking, usually after he’d had his cup of tea and Royal Scot biscuits. He insisted on those biscuits. God knows where they managed to keep finding them for him; I could never find any to buy him, but the people at the home, they obviously had a source. Perhaps they used to have them delivered direct from Scotland; I don’t know. But that was his thing of an afternoon: cup of tea and two Royal Scots. Many was the time I’ve sat there and watched his threadbare head droop, his wrinkled eyelids shut, and his breathing slow and deepen. And after a while, whenever that happened, I used to stand up quietly and walk over to the window, to speak to Elsie. She was a bit older than my Granddad. Not much, only a few years. But she looked a good decade his senior. Even so, she had real life about her; bright, alert eyes that saw much more than a camera would. And a smile that was used to capturing hearts. Elsie was her real name, but she had a stage name too. Elise. Elise Tyrel. Clever isn’t it? She was an acrobat, used to do the Variety circuit. She told me such wonderful stories about her years ‘in the business’. Her first performance was in 1925, and she took her final bow in 1958, at the age of forty-seven. In that time, she worked with so many famous people, I don’t know whether I can remember them all. The Crazy Gang I do recall: Flanagan and Allen, Nervo and Knox, Naughton and Gold, and of course “Monsewer” Eddie Gray. The Crazy Gang used to love playing practical jokes. One time, when Elise was performing at the London Palladium, they played one on the troupe of acrobats she was working with. Acrobats, while they are performing, wear little silk shoes, a bit like ballet shoes but without the wooden blocks in the toes. But while they’re walking around before and after the performance, to save getting them dirty, they put on these big slippers called overshoes. Well, this night, the acrobats had walked up to the wings, slipped off their overshoes, left them all in a line, and gone onto the stage to do their act. While they were performing, some of the Crazy Gang – Naughton, Knox and Eddie Gray she thought it was – nailed these overshoes to the floor. After they had finished the act, the troupe took their bows, came off stage and slipped into their overshoes. And of course, when they tried to walk away, they all fell over. It’s a wonderful story, and while she was telling it, I could see Elsie’s eyes watering up. I suppose to someone who has seen such wonderful times, and met such wonderful people, sitting in an old folk’s home, staring out of the window day after day must seem like Hell itself. All those years of contorting herself and being thrown and caught fifty times a night had taken their toll. Elsie had terrible arthritis. But she never complained, never even mentioned it. Well, only once. She told me other stories too. She worked with Max Miller and Tommy Trinder many times. Miller once made a pass at her. She couldn’t remember the year, but she’d only have been about eighteen or nineteen. He was a good deal older, but Elsie said he was a handsome devil, and she was flattered. She turned him down though. Her mother had given her such dire warnings about what would happen if she accepted the approaches of older men, she could not have done anything else. But, Elsie said, with a wink and a cheeky smirk, she did have a moment or two’s hesitation. There were so many stories, so many people, I can’t possibly remember them all. I’m getting on myself you know, memory isn’t quite what it was. But I do remember the last conversation I had with her. Granddad had fallen asleep, as was becoming all the more frequent, and I’d gone over to see Elsie as usual. She seemed a bit subdued that day, not quite her normal cheery self. Nevertheless, we got chatting, and she was telling me about some caper she’d been on with another troupe of tumblers called the ‘Six Volantes’. At the end of the tale, she trailed off and was uncharacteristically quiet for a minute or two. I was quite happy with that – it wasn’t an awkward silence. But then, quite out of the blue, I asked her about my Granddad. I can’t think why to this day. But I don’t suppose it matters. I said to Elsie, why don’t you ever talk to my Granddad? You’re both so friendly and talkative to everyone else, I’d’ve thought the two of you would get on really well. She looked up at me, and gave me the only sad smile I ever saw her give. And then she told me. Just before the Second World War, she had been working at another theatre in London, the Empire in Leicester Square. One night, after the final performance, she had been in the dressing room, alone, when there was a knock on the door. She shouted for whoever it was to come in, and when the door opened, she saw it was a young man. He was nervously holding out an autograph book, and asked her if she would sign it. He said he’d been to the theatre three nights in a row, just to see her. She was quite taken with this man, signed his book, and they started talking. A few nights later, they met again and he took her out. They started to get quite close, and saw each other almost every night. But then the acrobat team moved on to Manchester, and she, of course, had to go with them. For a while they managed to keep in touch, but then this young man was conscripted, and went to fight in North Africa. She never saw him again. I’m sure you’ve guessed what I’m going to say next. That’s right; the young man was my Granddad. She recognised him when she first moved into the home; but he didn’t recognise her. He had only ever known her as Elise, so even the name didn’t give it away. Elsie said she was embarrassed, because she thought she must look all bent and wrinkled and old, nothing like she did when Granddad had known her. So she never said anything to him. She said that one day she might pluck up the courage. But she never did. Less than a week after that, she died in her sleep. Stroke, apparently. I found out the next time I visited Granddad. The strange thing is though, and I don’t really understand it, why didn’t Granddad talk to her? If he didn’t recognise her, as Elsie seemed to think, then why didn’t he talk to her the same as he did to everyone else in there? I don’t know. Maybe in some way he did know who she was, but wasn’t quite sure and didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Or maybe he thought it was she who didn’t recognise him. What I do know is that day when I went to see him, just a couple of days after Elsie died, he had been crying. He wasn’t crying when I got there, and never mentioned her to me all afternoon, but I could tell from his eyes he’d been crying before I arrived. I wish they had talked to each other. It would have been good for both of them. But maybe it was too late. Their lives had been lived completely separately, and in totally different ways. Perhaps there was just too much catching up to do in too little time. I miss Elsie. I miss my Granddad too. He died last month. Eighty-three. So I don’t suppose I’ll be going there again. Well, not till I end up there myself anyway.
Copyright © 2000 Simon King |