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.