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Josie was well into her seventies, but she looked as if she was in her fifties and moved like she was in her forties. I met her when I was booked to be the artiste at Horton Lane Working Men’s Club up Horton Lane in Bradford. She was one of the committee members that had to do with entertainment and ‘turns,’ as we artistes were called in clubland.

In her more youthful days, Josie had been a chanteuse with a good following, a beautiful voice, and strikingly long tresses that fell to her waist. She still had the tresses, but their gold had turned to silver, as it does in all our cases, as if it were trying to point something out that our joints had not already told us.

Horton Lane was only one of two clubs in which I performed where the statutory electric organ was replaced by vintage grand pianos. The other club was also in Bradford, and apart from the efflorescent crumbling décor and dangerous round hole sockets - into which one had to finagle square peg plugs – the only other thing of note apart from the accompanist’s obvious lack of expertise was the dressing room.

The dressing room was really a corridor-width glory hole that had been transformed – well, almost – into the star’s parlour by having had a door ill-fitted at its open end. I will not say that the room was ill-furnished, but there was no place to sit and no place to spit, both of which are considered essential by that brave band of troubadours who hone their skills in the back street entertainment palaces of England’s Northern counties in preparation for the day when they would receive the Command to entertain titled heads at the London Palladium.

However, back at Horton Lane things were better. The dressing room was adequate – all that one could hope for, really – the pianist was on top form and Josie ran her legs off to see that I was settled in and enjoying myself as much as the patrons were. I told her that I could never match their pleasure at hearing me sing, because I had heard myself sing many times before and unless I surprised myself it would just be more of the same for me. However, I promised her that I would give my all and do it without the aid of liquor, hard or soft.

Josie smiled. Her smile was her answer to everything. I noticed her through the night being buttonholed by club members. Most of them were appreciative of the effort she poured into her voluntary and unpaid tasks. Yet when some hot head took her to task for what he considered a deficiency, her response was the same smile and gentle explanation she gave to everyone.

Between the second and last set I asked her whether she had ever experienced a situation that she had not met with her famous smile. She thought hard, and nodded long and slow.

"Just once."

"Do you care to share it with me?" I asked.

"Well, Ray," she began - I should explain that my professional name was Ray Buck – "I was asked by an agency who knew my work to do a commercial for Shackleton’s High Seat Chairs, and something happened there that wiped the smile off my face."

For those not blessed to be from the North, especially any who have the misfortune to be born on the left hand side of it, I will explain that ‘Shackletons (Carlinghow) Ltd,’ is an old established firm of furniture makers who do a range of chairs that are a boon and a blessing to the elderly by having elevated seats that make it easy for us arthritics to rise and shuffle about a bit. Their advertisements have been running on the Telly for as long as I can remember, and have achieved cult status.

Most of the younger folks will probably have seen Dame Thora Hird in the hot seat extolling the virtues of them, and that is appropriate because Dame Thora was crippled with arthritis that necessitated three hip replacements. She also had angina, so she knew a thing or two about getting up from sitting down.

However, before Dame Thora was Madam Josie, and arthritis and other complaints had given Josie a wide berth. Not only did she not need a high chair when she reached seventy, but given the dare she could probably have vaulted over one and not been out of breath.

"What was that," I inquired, enticing her to resume her narrative.

"Well Ray," – she had this friendly habit of using people’s names whenever she spoke to them. It made each of them feel special – "I accepted the assignment to make this commercial, and turned up at the studio to ‘do the shoot’ as they call it. I had been warned before hand that the director was a martinet who brooked no lateness, slovenliness, sloppiness, or any other ‘ness’ but demanded perfection from everyone connected with the shoot. Because of this I was warned that the whole thing would take several hours."

"However," she went on, "The pay was out of this world and I was told that there was always an after-shoot party, so it seemed like a right good deal."

"So how did the smile get gone?" I asked.

"I’m getting to that, lad," she said, with warm Yorkshirely familiarity.

"Sorry, Josie," I said.

"Well, I got there, got changed into some frumpies, had my hair greyed and bunned, and sat in the chair waiting to be cued to speak. Then it was ‘Lights, action, camera, and dialogue!’ I said my lines. You know, ‘My niece bought this for me from Shackletons', you know. Shackletons High Seat Chairs, they’re lovely,’ the director said, ‘That’s a wrap. Well done everyone, and feeling very pleased with myself for having got it in one take, I went to the dressing room and got changed. I was looking forward to the party, because I love parties; enjoy meeting people, chatting, making new friends, you know."

I was again tempted to ask her about the disappearing smile but, having been once chastened, I kept my peace and waiting for her to cap her story.

"When I came out of the dressing room to join the party, the whole damn place was in darkness and everyone had gone home!"

"Well, I’m capped! What a let down! ‘The shouting and the tumult die,’ eh?"

"Aye!" she smiled back, before excusing herself to attend to a needy club member.

Knowing Josie I was sure that it would not have been long after the non-party that her smile returned. Her disappointment, as deep as it had been at the time, was ameliorated by a combination of her innate good nature and the repeat fees for airing the commercial.

And Shackletons’ chairs? I am sure they are still ‘lovely,’ but they don’t sell them on this side of the pond, so I have used my Yorkshire noggin and made a base from hazel wood planks, covered it with carpet, and screwed Gay’s comfortable but low chair to it, making it into a high seat chair. It’s not Shackletons, but it works, and it would make Josie smile.

Copyright © 2007 – Ronnie Bray

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Other stories at:
http://www.2theheart.com/author_ronnie_bray
http://www.meridianmagazine.com/voices/011024summer.html

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