MARIE LLOYD ~ THE ONE AND ONLY ~ THE QUEEN OF THE MUSIC HALLS...

I wish I could have met her. I think she could have told some tales when I wrote my first novel, The Somnambulist, which is based on a fictional family who live in the East End of London – and who have strong links to the music halls, in particular to Wilton’s, in the Wapping/Whitechapel area. Wilton's Hall still opens its doors to the public to this day, putting on shows, and also guided tours. If you happen to go there I’m sure you’ll agree that, despite the building’s state of decay, as soon as you enter its doors you feel as if you’ve travelled back in time ... right back to its Victorian heyday. You can almost hear the pop of champagne corks, the laughter and singing, the instruments playing. You can imagine the chandelier that once sparkled on mirrors around the walls. You can still see the cast iron barley twist pillars supporting the single balcony, and the glorious papier mache frieze that laps around its front – from which you could almost reach down with your arms to touch anyone on the stage below. That’s how intimate the venue is.

And why am I talking about Wilton's? Well, it’s simply because that music hall would not really have been all that different from the venues where Marie Lloyd performed at the very start of her career - so many of which no longer exist. I wanted to give you some idea of the setting and the atmosphere – with the costers and dockers, and West end swells who tipped top hats while ‘slumming it’ with the East End shop girls and prostitutes. Over the whistles, shouts and laughter, through the fug of cigar smoke and fumes of gas, and without the aid of a microphone (which is something we take for granted today) Marie Lloyd would have had very little more than her natural charisma and confidence with which to reach out to that audience. And to have them eating out of her hand.

I don’t think Marie sang at Wilton’s – with the doors of that hall having been closed for immoral behaviour and decadence at the time when a cheeky East End girl made her debut in The Grecian Hall - which was situated in Hoxton, and only a street or two away from where the future Queen of the Halls had been born and spent her childhood.

Born on February 12, 1870, she first lived at 36, Plumber Street (what is known as Provost Street today). Her father’s name was John ‘Brush’ Wood – Brush being a nickname that came about because he liked to be smartly dressed and always carried a clothes brush in his pocket. John was quite artistic too, employed in making artificial silk flowers. But he also boosted the family coffers by waiting on tables in halls and bars, of which there were very many around, with Hoxton being in the midst of the East End’s thriving theatrical world.

John’s wife was called Matilda, and she was a dressmaker by trade – with quite a talent for design – a talent inherited by her daughter, which came in useful later on when Marie often designed and made the costumes that she was to wear on stage. But here, I am running ahead of myself...

Matilda Alice Victoria Wood – more usually known as Tilley then – was one of eleven siblings, of whom nine survived to adulthood. A headstrong and determined child, she spent far more time playing truant from school than studying behind a desk. She preferred to help her mother at home, looking after the younger family members, or organising singing games. Always dramatic by nature, she loved being the centre of attention – so much so that when still very young she often haunted the graveyards around her home attending the funerals of strangers where she wept and wailed so convincingly that every eye would turn her way. Eventually, her passion was more usefully directed into The Fairy Bell Minstrels, a family singing act. While Tilley’s brother Johnny sold programmes to advertise the events, she and her other siblings performed – decked up in the costumes their mother made while appearing at the Nile Street Sunday School, and the Blue Ribbon Gospel Temperance Mission (yet another name for the Hoxton Hall, when its ownership was more spiritual). Here the children sang lyrics that warned about the evils of alcohol, such as - Throw Down the Bottle and Never Drink Again...’ which proved to be somewhat ironic when considering Marie’s later years.

For then Marie was still Tilley, and Tilley’s only addiction was a burning ambition to go on the stage; an ambition encouraged by the fact that her mother’s sister once danced in halls – when Aunt Louisa would be transformed into the glamorous Madame Patti. Still, however stage-struck Tilley had been, encouraged by her hardworking and respectable parents who knew how uncertain and perilous a life on the stage could be, she managed to find employment in making shoes for babies, or curling feathers for dressing hats. But such employment did not last long before she was sacked by the factory foreman after climbing up onto the tables to sing and distract the other workers.

Tilley’s parents were very soon forced to agree that – in the words of their daughter later on: they couldn’t kick their objections as high as she could kick her legs! And so, John Wood arranged for her take a turn at the Grecian Hall, which was served by the Eagle Tavern – which was where he happened to be employed, with both buildings being part of the same complex, on the corner of Shepherdess Walk – where it adjoins the City Road, very near to Old Street Roundabout.

Was Tilley nervous that first night, when she performed as Matilda Wood, when, even with her father nearby to keep an eye on everything, we can only imagine the rush in her blood when she put on her costume while still at home and then made her way to the music hall. We know exactly what she wore. A figure hugging bodice, and a skirt to show her petticoats, and on her head a mantilla of lace to drape around her long blonde curls – through which shone blue eyes, and large white teeth in a face, not conventionally beautiful, but it did exude charisma. Tilley's personality set her apart when she stood on that stage to brave whatever cacophony might have been going on around her. We also know what she sang. A sentimental song entitled“In the Good Old Days”– which was probably rather slow and nostalgic for one so young. And that was swiftly followed by the ditty, My Soldier Laddie - after which she danced a jig!

That debut performance went so well that new invitations came rolling in for the singer who was now going under the name of Miss Bella Delamere. She appeared at various halls around, such as the Collins Islington – and the Hammersmith Temple of Varieties – and the Middlesex Hall in Drury Lane. And despite some early controversy, when Bella stole ballads from other stars and was threatened with legal injunctions, somehow she had the wit and nerve to carry on and escape the worst. Her great future was finally ensured when performing at Bethnal Green’s Sebright Hall, where she met the composer, George Ware. George  became her manager, and he also gifted her with a brand new stage name, after which she was known as Marie – Marie as in starry - which was thought to be more sophisticated, with the Ooh la la nuance of being French. The surname of Lloyd was said to have come from a copy of Lloyds Weekly Newspaper – though it could also have been the name on a box of matches close to hand.

Well, whatever they shouted, the eyes of all would have been wide in amazement during a London pantomime when, egged on by her co-star, Little Tich, Marie knelt down to pray by a bed and then added some improvisation by reaching underneath it, as if in search of a chamber pot. The audience thought that hilarious, though Augustus Harris, the director, insisted his star never do it again. But it was hard to restrain Marie’s character and natural ebullience. For that act and other 'vulgarities', such as the time when she struggled with a parasol and finally proclaimed, ‘Thank God, I haven’t had it up for months!’– she offended many a prurient souls, even if what was deemed outrageous then would be viewed as mild innuendo now.

Well, I think you must see what I mean but while still up before the Committee, Marie sang, ‘Oh, Mr Porter!’ (A song about going too far on a train – and too far in other ways as well) – and “A Little of what you fancy does you good’ - and both performed so coyly and demurely that no-one could find a thing to condemn. And, finally, in an act of defiance she sang the lyrics of Tennyson’s poem, ‘Come into the Garden Maud’ with such a carnal knowing air at every utterance of ‘come’ that all who were. present were stunned into silence. But Marie Lloyd had made her point. Obscenity was all in the mind.

Marie's career could not be stopped by Orniston Chant, or anyone else. Rather than being banned from the stage, she went on to receive such rave reviews as this one from Black and White Magazine when, at the age of 29, Marie had the starring role in the Pantomime, Dick Whittington:

This view was shared by 'superior souls' such as T S Elliot who insisted that Miss Marie Lloyd “had the capacity for expressing the soul of the people - which made her something quite unique.”

Well, Marie was certainly unique, unashamedly singing her risque songs, all delivered with guts and gusto – and her fans far less prudish than we might suppose, for they liked nothing more than to have some fun. And Marie dished out the fun in spades – truly leaving the audience her slaves.

But, for every conquest made from the stage during the height of her career, Marie’s love life was never such a success. 

She was first married at seventeen, when her private life might have mirrored her act, when she might have gazed up at the balcony while singing the words of this famous song:

The boy who gazed back at Marie was most likely her brother, Johnny, who, at that cue would smile down and wave his handkerchief about. But I like to think that, now and then, it would have been Percy Courtenay, the silver-tongued Stage Door Johnny, and race course ticket tout, of whom we know little more; except that he hailed from Streatham, and managed to steal Marie’s heart – and also her virginity.

A baby daughter, Myria, was born six months after the wedding day. The newly weds had a marital home in two rooms in a house in Arlington Square, which is just off the New North Road. But this was far from a dream come true. Marie’s pregnancy left her shell-shocked, fearing her career was lost. And she also discovered she’d married a drunkard; a man who frequently gambled their money, and was jealous of his wife’s success. He resented her friendships with theatre friends, such as Dan Leno, and Little Tich, Lottie Collins and Albert Chevalier – the friends who, along with her large family, were welcomed at any time of day, with their home more like an informal hotel. The rift between Marie and Percy was soon irreparable. She exhausted herself with theatre work, throwing herself into pantomimes which were lucrative and near to home, but physically demanding with the runs going on for months on end. So, perhaps it is little wonder that Marie’s second pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage.

Marie was only nineteen years old, but she was determined to carry on. And carry on she did with style. At The Empire, The Alhambra in Leicester Square, The Trocadero off Shaftsbury Avenue, and the Royal Standard in Victoria. It was during the pantomime, Little Bo Beep, that Percy Courtenay – entirely drunk – broke into her Drury Lane dressing room and attempted to slash at his wife’s throat with a sword used as one of the stage props. There was also another occasion when he beat her with a walking stick, screaming in the street for all to hear, ‘I will gouge your eyes out and ruin you!’ 

Enough was enough. Marie left their home to embark on a tour of America, and when she returned to England again a restraining order was enforced to prevent her husband coming anywhere near – by which time she was otherwise involved with the singer, Alec Hurley.

Alec Hurley was a gentle bear of a man who’d been raised just a mile or two from Marie’s own Hoxton family home. Solid, and dependable, the ex-costerman and tea store clerk was often to share his lover’s stage when, during a ten year courtship, the handsome ‘cockney couple’ travelled as far as America, Australia, and South Africa. They shared many other interests – such as their trips to the races, for which they kept houseboats on the Thames, to be nearer to their favourite tracks. Sunbeam was used during the day, and Moonbeam in the evenings, and there was much talk of their owners often ending up in the river too when a meet had gone particularly well. They shared a home in Hampstead, but never forgot their East End friends - proud of being working class right down to their very bootstraps. They showed great support and gave monetary aid when the Amalgamated Musicians Union went on strike for fairer pay; when Alex Hurley and Marie helped to fund the Music Hall War of 1907 – all just a year after they married, when Marie’s divorce at last came through.

By then there were wars at home as well, and the lyrics that Alec was famous for, ‘I aint nobody in perticuler,’ reflected the fact that many now addressed him as Mr Marie Lloyd – or the star who had married a planet. And when on the verge of bankruptcy, due to gambling and failed business interests, Marie upped and left all their troubles behind for a new and passionate affair – this time with a jockey, half her age!

She left Alec – some say - when he needed her most, and moved to a house in Golders Green to live with Bernard Dillon, who was famous for his Derby wins, as well as the 1000 Guineas stakes. The young man was also known in the halls, lauded as a sporting pin up who appeared inVanity Fair. But Dillon was also infamous as a drinking, bullying, gambling man, who’d lost his riding license when involved in a betting scandal.

This new relationship was doomed, just as the other two had been, with Dillon resenting the fact that his fame was eclipsed by his wife’s flamboyant charm. More scurrilous members of the press wrote of their troubled private life, and perhaps this affected her public persona when, in 1912, she was not asked to play a part in the very first Royal Command Performance. Some said that was due to her scandalous life, some to her crude performing style, and others because of her politics – because of the enemies she’d made amongst the theatre managements when supporting the musician’s strike. Whatever the reason for the slight, Marie – though inwardly furious – refused to be cast aside, performing herself on the very same night where the London Pavilion posters announced: Marie Lloyd, Queen of the halls; with placards outside the theatre proclaiming: “Every performance by Marie Lloyd is a command performance – by command of the British public!’

It was a great success, but the gossiping press had a field day again, and worse was to come when the couple embarked on a trip to tour America – when before they’d even left the ship, someone informed the authorities that, although they’d shared a cabin on board the SS Olympic, she and Dillon were not wed. When detained as ‘Undesirables’, and accused of ‘moral turpitude’, the farce was only to carry on when Dillon was arrested on charges of importing Lloyd as a product of the white slave trade! The affair may seem almost laughable now, but Marie was at the end of her tether and later admitted she’d never forget ‘the humiliation to which I have been subjected ...I shall never sing in America again, no matter how high the salary offered.’

I wonder if that humiliation was made worse by the fact that her sister, Alice (who had also followed a singing career, as many of her siblings did), was far more popular in New York. By contrast, when Marie’s tour went ahead, even though she played to packed houses some reviews were very cruel. Her pride was hurt, and her guard was down, and perhaps she was trying to hide her pain when the news came from England that Hurley had died of pleurisy and pneumonia. He was only 42 year old, and – according to many friends, still professing his love for her up till the end – whereas she responded with the words:“with all due respect to the dead, I can cheerfully say that’s the best piece of news I’ve heard in many years, for it means that Bernard Dillon and I will marry as soon as this unlucky year ends.”

Bernard Dillon brought no luck. The man who Marie then legally wed at the British Consulate in Portland, Oregon, in the February of 1914 was trouble from the start. At least when back in England, nearer to friends and family, Marie felt on safer ground and resumed some provincial tours. And then, in 1915, at the age of 45, she was rolling up her sleeves and involved in the First World War Effort. She travelled around the country to visit hospitals and factories, entertaining the frontline troops with songs like, ‘Now You’ve Got your Khaki on’. That particular hit was performed to 10,000 men in the Crystal Palace in South London. And what a show it must have been, with so many cheering her on.

But Dillon was less supportive. He had joined the army too, but then spent every moment trying to leave, either claiming to be too obese to be fit for army life, or that he was needed to go and care for his family back in Ireland. His behaviour was often shameless, such as on the occasion when Marie came home to find her husband in her bed, making love to another woman. She also endured many beatings when Dillon was out of his wits with drink, soon becoming so commonplace that the police had to intervene. Dillon was eventually sentenced to work a month’s hard labour. But, only after he assaulted Marie's father – with John by then being very old and frail – did Marie make a final break.

Emotionally and physically she was a wreck, often drinking to ease her woes. And yet she still achieved success with ‘My Old Man Said Follow the Van', when she stood on the stage in a costume of rags and carried a bird cage in one hand to show the plight of the homeless poor - those forced to do a midnight flit when they hadn’t the money to pay the rent.

Ironically, as so often before, this song was to mirror Marie’s life. Not that she was homeless as such, but she was always travelling about, and despite having earned what were then vast sums – as much as £11,000 a year – her handouts to husbands, family, and friends, meant that she ended up in debt.

Forced to sell the marital home, she went to live in Woodstock Road, in a house in Golders Green owned by her sister, Daisy, and a place on which Bernard Dillon could have no monetary claim. Still, it was hard to make a new start. Marie was being side-lined by more popular music hall acts. Caught in a downward spiral of grief, the woman who’d reached her half century was no longer so young or resilient. She became less and less reliable, often not showing up for work, as illustrated by the night when she'd been booked for the London Palladian and instead of walking onto the stage she stayed at home to make her will; and to write her husband out of it.

Her act was also unpredictable. She often stumbled into the scenery, or was supported by the hand of someone behind the stage curtain. Many times the performance would be curtailed, such as on the night in Cardiff when she lasted only six minutes before heading back to her dressing room. There was also the occasion when she was cruelly described by Virginia Woolf who saw her act at Camden’s Bedford Hall and later on would write about: “A mass of corruption – long front teeth – a crapulous way of saying 'desire', – scarcely able to walk, waddling, aged, unblushing...”

A shadow of her former self, Marie’s frame became shrunken and her face so drawn that some said she looked like a man in drag. Severely blackened teeth may well have been the proof that she’d attempted to use mercury to contain the symptoms of syphilis, caught from her promiscuous husband. When on the stage of the London Alhambra she sang with a greatly weakened voice, “It's a bit of a ruin that Cromwell knocked about a bit”, and then collapsed onto the boards as if in a drunken stupor. The audience roared with laughter, thinking it was a part of the act, when all along Marie Lloyd was dying before their very eyes. Three days later, at the age of just 52, exhausted and ravaged by alcohol Marie Lloyd was pronounced as dead, with the death certificate describing - Mitral regurgitation, 14 months. Nephritis, 14 months. Uraemic coma, 3 days. In short, heart and kidney failure. She must have suffered terribly, but she never wanted pity. Right until the very end she preferred to put a brave face on things, saying:“Let them think I died of good living – don’t leave them crying.”

But, Marie did leave them crying, and she still had one more performance to make, which was to be her funeral. Her audience was larger than ever in life, with 100,000 of her fans coming out to line the London roads on Thursday, October 12, in the year of 1922. T S Elliot was so distraught that he wrote an open letter saying he would not be attending any literary events for the next two months. Max Beerbohm, the famous essayist wrote that London had not seen such a funeral since the death of the Duke of Wellington. Today, we can only compare those scenes with the intense outpourings of grief that were shown for Diana, The Princess of Wales, when so many people had the sense that this was a woman who’d touched their hearts; that they’d lost a personal friend.

Mourners came from near and far. Huge crowds gathered in Woodstock Road. Old Kate, a race card seller, had walked the 75 miles from Newmarket. An empty floral birdcage was to signify that in ‘My Old Man...” but there was no hope of the hundreds of tributes sent being able to fit on the coffin lid – a coffin so small that none could believe it contained the great Marie Lloyd. The hearse left the house at 11am, topped with Marie’s old stage prop, of an ebony cane wreathed in orchids. At the cemetery in West Hampstead, mourners stood twelve deep around the grave, and the cemetery gates had to be closed before the internment could take place.

So many wept that autumn day for a woman they said could not be replaced. Whether or not she ever was, the music hall era was now in its twilight. The crowds who had once filled them were now keener on dance halls and jazz. They flocked in their droves to cinemas for the cult of silent film. And after the horrors of World War 2, many more stayed at home with their TV sets, on which they may well have watched nostalgic programmes about the halls, such as the The Good Old Days –  with that title being an echo of Marie's first song in the Grecian Hall.