Curriculum Vitae of Muriel Gantry,
Part 3

Muriel Gantry at Moira Cottage
Photo courtesy of Beryl Cheetham

789 words

Part 3 of 5 (Part 1 here, Part 2 here, Part 4 here)

I decided to return to London and chance the bombs; things were quiet enough. An agent in Bow Street handed me the keys of two rooms in Drury Lane.

180 Drury Lane is still there; its six two-room gas-lit tenements are now three expensive flats, but the old shoe-repairer shop, S. Krantz and Son, Est. 1904 is still on the ground floor. I remember the faded old letters in its window, praising and re-ordering hand-made footwear which often seemed to see service in exotic places. In 1948 old Mr. Krantz still sat in his old-style shop, hammering away. The house above was dingy and dusty; the rooms, empty for three years, were dusty too: a large sitting-room, adequate kitchen, big windows, and the “amenities” on the landing — for 9/3 per week. I moved in in August 1942 and was to stay 36 years. I had the minimum of furniture for some time, but the place was mine, and no “friendly help” was expected. 180 stands between the street where Nell Gwyn was (reputedly) born and the one where she had her first job (in Mother Rose’s brothel). Mother never quite believed I had not chosen the location purposely.

The actress I dressed in Rose Marie was friendly, and later, sympathetic; Victor the wardrobe master was a middle-aged drag artist and we agreed well. We ran for three months at the Stoll; I went on tour with the show as dresser and assistant wardrobe mistress, and all went well. We played the same No. 1 dates as The Dancing Years, and I heard stories of Mrs. W.’s dishonesty; at Edinburgh a landlady with whom I had hoped to stay came to me asking if I knew the whereabouts of herself and her husband; they had slipped away owing her the rent, having previously warned her “not to have me in the house” with some libelous additions. Mrs. McC’s imitation of pseudo-genteel Mrs. W. was perfect, and it was all obviously true.

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The tour ended; I took a break to improve my new home and then looked for work again. Victor said the head of Tom Arnold’s wardrobe department was in need of helpers, and I went to see her.

Some rearrangement of the premises was going on; she asked me to come back in a few days, but it all seemed favorable. When I returned she seemed ready and willing to engage me, but asked me again to come back. I went again and was engaged without delay. A great heap of hate from the Dick Whittington pantomime awaited restoration or renewal; work I liked and could do well. I had the room to myself, Mrs. St. D. was most friendly, and all seemed set fair, save for the wages. £2.10. was no longer a small fortune in 1942.

On pay-day she said she was worried about me. This is it, I thought. “I’m not paying you enough,” she said in her broad Scots voice, “but I’m only allowed so much for each employee.” She promised to put some overtime in my way if I would stay; she was most pleased with me. I spoke to her frankly; as I thought, the stage director, really my enemy now, had tried to prevent her engaging me. But she decided that whom she employed was her own business, used her own judgment, and took me on.  I finished the hats, took out their pantomime as wardrobe mistress, was made a part of the permanent wardrobe staff, and stayed three years.

The V2 which fell in Shelton Street broke every window in 180 Drury Lane, and brought down some of my kitchen ceiling, but we survived. It had been eighteen months after the official date for registration before I signed; we had three posts a day then, and I dreaded each time what might come through the door; but nothing ever did. I cannot tell why, but I was simply never called up. I walked among the VE-Day crowds feeling my own private kind of thankfulness.

Whenever Ivor and myself were in town together I still waited at the stage door each evening I could. He wished me good-night and occasionally I had a word or two, but there was still a barrier there. Once I accidentally overheard, in the black-out, a brief kindly reference to myself, and once someone from the Arnold office let slip something which, if true, showed that he had a definite concern for me. His new musical, Perchance to Dream, had opened at the Hippodrome and from the first there was a difference in his manner. A sympathizer said “I had struck the right note at last.” Whatever the reason, I was thankful.

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