By the time the French comic makes his appearance – blame it on to the champagne – I am almost asleep.Ībout to see Greco in the flesh for the first time and perhaps the only time in my life, I come well prepared. “Repetition,” billed as a clash between classical and Jazz idioms is too classical and has not enough jazz for my taste. After the Flamenco dancers, and waiting for Greco, the rest of the first part of the show drags interminably. The spotlights pick out the sinuous dancers with their swirling skirts, stamping feet and the serpentine arms ending with heads of clicking castanets.
One part emulates Flamenco dancers and I am rather partial to Spanish music and Flamenco dancing. The ballet, “Fetes Foreign” is in three parts and I find it interesting.
The six vivacious femmes in the same costumes with their hair pinned up, look remarkably like sextuplets. consists of four hairy fairies and six slender dancing girls. Sitting high up in the ‘Gods,’ the curtain rises and we look down on the stage that looks about the size of a handkerchief. There is also a French comedian called Gèrard Sèty and ‘Piano Rhythms’ by a Chester Harriot. de Georges Reich’ from Paris, in contrasting styles is the main supporting act. Apart from Greco, it does not look very promising. I buy a programme for a shilling and sit looking at the photograph of Juliette Greco, thinking how much Noelle reminds me of her. We arrive at the Savoy Theatre in the Strand in good time for the curtain call. Tonight we have each other and before that – Greco. We do not care a jot for what others think. People stare at us as if we are mad, or, they ignored us completely, thinking we are part of some stupid publicity stunt. We dance across the park in a wild gavotte and pirouette down the crowded streets of Soho. “It’s at the British Embassy in Athens.”ĭrinking on our empty stomachs the wine goes straight to our heads. “I’ve got the job I asked for.” Jean beams at me. “What’s the special occasion? My statue is not that worthy” I ask. She is impressed and in a right festive mood, Jean dips into the bag she is carrying and produces a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Having just finished the wooden sculpture at the Portsmouth College of Art, I put it in the boot of the car to show Jean. She is a bohemian feline, a real chanteuse, beautiful and a woman I must see. Her singing alone makes my toes curl up and send frantic invisible mice stamping up and down the back of my neck. “The tickets are for Joooliette Greco!” Jean croons, stretching out the name with the dexterity of an angler casting a fly across the water to catch a very large trout. The sexy chanteuse who personified the spirit and style of post-war Paris and who later inherited Édith Piaf’s exquisite mantle as grande-dame of French song. 110 centimetres tall, 35 centimetres wide
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He had hoped to serve the full foreign commission of two and a half years but regulations demanded that his last three months in the Royal Navy should be served in his Home Port and his happy sojourn in Singapore came to an abrupt halt in late November 1963. George enjoys Singapore so much that after a year, against all expectations, Olive gives birth to a baby girl – Fiona Jane.
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There are three bars, a TV Room, Billiards Room, Dining Hall, Cinema, a swimming Pool, a covered patio for dances, socials and even a Golf Course! George’s full title is Chief Electrical Artificer Gyro Compass Specialist for the Far Eastern Fleet, which makes him very special and the only one in South East Asia. He is impressed with the facilities that are situated in beautiful grounds of tropical flowering shrubs and rolling, well-kept lawns of la’lang. George is based at HMS Terror, a shore establishment lying on the north coast of Singapore overlooking the Johore Straits. Yes, he aired their existence with an occasional thought, or suffered a little remorse and indulgence, when a letter arrived, but he simply closed their doors one by one and opened a new box on a tropical paradise. In early July 1962, George left the United Kingdom for Singapore, he had little craving for those he left behind. A trip to Singapore made him shiver with delight.
Then, in typical George fashion, he went mouse quiet, determined that if anyone had made a blunder, he should get the most out of it. Indignantly, he waved a ‘they-cannot-do-this-to-me’ fist declaring that someone had obviously made a cock-up. It shattered his peace of mind with the audacity of a time bomb. With only eighteen months of service left to complete his time for pension, George’s draft chit to Singapore came as a shock to him.
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