About Tilly Maydme
Right then, let me introduce meself proper.
Me name’s Tilly Maydme.
And none of that sniggerin’ in the back row, thank you very much. That’s me real name, honest it is.
Now the story goes that me ma once met a French bloke down the docks somewhere, and on account of him supposedly being me real father she said I ought to have ’is name. Said it was the least he could do, considerin’ it was about the only thing he ever gave me.
After that she started swearin’ like a navvy, muttered somethin’ about cheese, and that was the last I ever heard about the matter.
So Maydme it is.
And between you and me, it works rather nicely for this here stage business, don’t it?
Me mum was ever so proud when I started performin’. She’d puff out her chest and say to anyone wot would listen,
“Look at me gel! She’s gone right up in the world she has. Gone beyond the life of a stage-door tart. Go on Tilly, you show ’em what made ya, Maydme!”
She had a way with words, me mam did. Not always the polite ones, mind.
Now don’t you go gettin’ the wrong idea about me.
I’m a good girl, I am.
It’s just that me one tragic flaw is bein’ a bit of a hopeless romantic. A girl tries to find a decent lad in London, but it seems most of ’em only wants you for one fing, and they ain’t even shy about sayin’ so neither.
Then one day I meets Arthur.
And the first fing I fink is,
“Blimey… what a nob.”
Never in all me born days had I met a man wiv so many double entendres fallin’ out of ’is mouth. He reckons it’s on account of ’is upbringin’, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Personally I fink he just talks fancy so people won’t notice he’s makin’ rude jokes.
Anyways, I was a bit down on me luck at the time. Every girl in London seemed to be tryin’ to become the next big music hall sensation, and I was knockin’ about outside a little backstreet theatre wonderin’ where me next chance was comin’ from.
That’s when I runs into Arthur.
Seems he’d decided he fancied a go at the stage ’imself.
Said he was a poet.
Poet!
Blooming fancy nob, eh?
Problem was, he hadn’t the faintest idea what them theatre managers actually wanted. So I takes pity on ’im and takes ’im under me wing.
And before you could say “mind the chorus line” a double act was born.
I tries me best to teach ’im to sing.
I tries me best to teach ’im to dance.
And let me tell ya somethin’ right now.
He ain’t a natural.
Still, he’s got a certain charm about ’im, in a posh idiot sort of way, and audiences seem to like seein’ a toff gettin’ dragged about the stage by a Cockney girl who knows what she’s doin’.
Now one day I hopes to be a proper big star like our Marie. I do love them fancy dresses and hats she wears. What lady don’t, eh?
And I do enjoy a drop of gin now and again.
Well, you’ve gotta live the high life when you’re a star, ain’t ya?
Mind you, I likes to remind Arthur every now and again that I ain’t just some Cockney songbird what can belt out a tune. Sometimes I writes a bit of that there poetry meself.
He don’t like it much.
Says I’m gettin’ ideas above me station.
But I reckon the stage is big enough for the both of us.
So to all me stage-door Charlies and all you lovely good-time gals, I’ll say cheerio for now.
Love ya and leave ya.
Yours truly,
Tilly Maydme
xxx