Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1927
L ouisa
“Can you believe it, Clara?” I twirl in a circle, sending the skirt of my drop-waist dress billowing. “What a night. What a photoplay.” My secret dream of acting on the big screen courses through me, spurred on by tonight’s visit to the theatre.
Glancing over her shoulder, Clara beams in my direction before returning her attention to the framed poster of Phyllis Haver on the side panel of The New Orpheum Theatre’s entrance.
“I am glad the theatre was sold out and the only seats available were the more expensive tickets. I know you were worried about the cost, Clara, but you must agree that the premier seating was definitely worth the additional twenty cents each. I can’t imagine experiencing the theatre any other way now. We would never have known the luxury of it all if the lower-priced seats hadn’t been sold out for the next month.” I stride back toward my sister, excitement over tonight’s events warding off the winter chill.
“This is a beautiful theatre.” Clara steps toward the doors, shading her eyes with both hands as she peeks through the glass at the grand foyer, lit by three oversized chandeliers hanging from a decorative ceiling.
I join her to peer through the glass. “I poked my head into the ladies’ retiring room on my way to the washroom.” I jab a finger into Clara’s side to garner her attention. “There were maids tending to ladies as though they had come to the salon instead of the theatre.” I shake my head and laugh. “Can you imagine?”
“The plush high-backed seats were more comfortable than most, but even if they weren’t, I can’t imagine taking my eyes off the show to sit in a salon.” The lighthearted note in Clara’s voice confirms our attendance tonight was just the ticket to distract her from concerns over her new position. “What was your favourite part?” Clara tugs on my coat sleeve and moves toward the sidewalk.
“ The Wise Wife , without a doubt.” I pause at the film poster once more before meeting Clara on the sidewalk. “It is terribly funny, and Phyllis Haver has oodles of talent. I wonder if she will make her way into a talkie, now that Hollywood is heading that way.”
“Miss. Excuse me, Miss Wilson.” A young woman dressed in a theatre maid’s uniform waves her arm overhead from the threshold of the lobby doors.
I turn toward the voice. “Are you calling me?” Stepping toward the girl, I do my best to place her. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
The girl blushes from her uniform collar to the top of her wide forehead. “No, miss. We haven’t officially met, but I recognized you earlier when you looked in at the ladies’ room.” She shuffles back and forth over the plush carpet. “Then again, as you peeked through the doors just now. I—I figured it was my only chance to say hello.”
I offer the girl a sincere smile. “Well, hello then.”
Though I wouldn’t have thought it possible, the girl’s face turns an even darker shade of red under the shine of the marquee lights. “I saw you in Craig’s Wife . Well, if I’m being honest, I saw the play three whole times. I thought you were magnificent.” The girls’ words run together in a rush of enthusiasm. “I imagine with your talent, it won’t be long until we are all watching you in a photoplay, maybe even here at The New Orpheum.”
“Three times?” I feel my smile grow wider at the girl’s gushing admiration of my performance. At her mention, thoughts of being in a photoplay instantly consume my thoughts, but I press on, not wishing to appear rude. “You must have camped out in front of the theatre, since the play only ran for two weeks.”
“I’ve always dreamed of being an actress.” A slight drop of her chin tells me she lacks belief in herself. “My father. He doesn’t consider escapades in theatre to be worthwhile.”
My eyes scan the Orpheum’s plush lobby behind her. “Yet you work here?” My left eyebrow climbs toward my forehead.
“Yes. It’s as close to the limelight as I can get without disappointing him. At least I can experience the shows. Glimpses really, but it’s enough to keep me coming back.”
Clara nudges me from behind. “Lou, we really should be getting home. We are due back at the hotel by eight, and I could really use a full night’s sleep.”
“Hotel?” The girl, clearly more forthright than she first appeared, directs her question to Clara.
“That’s right. We work at The Hotel Hamilton.” Clara tugs on my coat sleeve once more. “We really need to be going.”
“What do you do there? I thought you were an actress, Miss Wilson.” Her concern is evident, and I feel my status as a potential photoplay actress falter.
Hitching my chin up defiantly, I hold my ground and infuse my words with false confidence. “I happen to be both a hotel maid and an actress at the moment.” I extend my hand toward the girl, intent on drawing the conversation to a close. “It was lovely to meet you—ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
She places a small hand in mine, offering a slight squeeze. “Gwendolyn Russell, but my friends call me Gwen.”
“Well, it is very nice to meet you, Gwen. You have a lovely evening.” I turn to join Clara, but then think better of it. I too, after all, was a nobody with a dream before Craig’s Wife . “Thank you for coming to the play. Don’t give up on your dream, Gwen. We all have to start somewhere.”
Tucking my arm into the crook of Clara’s, we stroll toward home, the joy of the evening making our steps light.
Gwen’s brief mention of me on the silver screen races through my mind on repeat, mirroring my rapid cadence as we walk quickly down Granville Street. Papa only agreed to our later-than-usual outing on the condition that we remain on primary, well-lit city streets and arrive home in a timely manner. The city is still reeling from the shooting and subsequent death of Constable Ernest Sargent last month, and residents are wary and on the lookout for a man with a gun.
White clouds of breath form in front of me as the December cold urges us forward. While we walk, I contemplate my current status as a Vancouver theatre actress. I’ve been thinking too small. What if I am destined for more, for Hollywood? I’ve dreamed of California since it has been in my line of sight, making its presence known through the pages of my beloved magazines.
In a recent edition of Motion Picture Magazine , a headline announced that a new era was upon us. Given the advancement in talkie films, the time period is being labelled the Golden Age of Hollywood. My fingers tingle inside my gloves at the thought of being discovered during such a time. I mean, if Mary Pickford, a Canadian native, can become America’s sweetheart, why can’t I?
But how? I am mulling over how one may find herself being discovered when I remember a man from several years back who was looking for new talent. At the time, he was on a search for the next Mary Pickford. What was his name? Romaine? Yes, that is it. Romaine Fielding. I make a mental note to see if I can track him down. Perhaps Thomas or someone from the theatre knows how to contact him. He was, at least at one time, well known in the city, with his advertisements and auditions.
“A penny for your thoughts.” Clara bumps me mid-stride with an unexpected hip check.
I stumble to the side, taking her with me and giving a boisterous laugh. “I’m not sure they are worth that much.”
“They are to me.” Recovering her footing, Clara doesn’t miss a beat. “That girl back there. She didn’t upset you, did she?”
“No. Nothing like that.” We nod good evening to The Hotel Georgia’s doorman as we pass. “She was actually quite sweet. A fan, apparently.”
“That’s nice. I am sure you will experience more of that with the recent newspaper reviews. But I can tell there is something more, Lou. What’s wrinkling that brow of yours?”
“She got me thinking is all. For years, I’ve dreamed of being on the stage, and in the last few months, I’ve attained that goal. I owe so much to Thomas for putting me at the centre of the production, and I wouldn’t dream of letting him down, but what if I am destined for more?”
We cross Hornby Street without having to wait for traffic. “I thought you were happy on the stage,” Clara says. “What is bigger than that?”
“Promise you won’t laugh?” I steal a sideways glance.
Clara removes the mitten from her left hand and lifts her little finger to me. “Pinky promise.”
I do the same, clasping her little finger in mine before returning my hand to the warmth of my glove. “Hollywood.” I force the word out in a rush of air. “I would like to be in the movies. Just like Phylis Haver and Mary Pickford.”
Clara’s head bobs in agreement, which both pleases and surprises me. “I can actually see you on the big screen.”
“You don’t think it’s silly? To have a such a wild dream.”
“If you had asked me six months ago, I would have said it was silly. But now, you’ve proven your talent and dedication to a career as an actress. How could I say otherwise? I’ll support you, Lou. Honest I will.”
I can’t resist a jibe at Clara’s expense. “You do realize that Hollywood is in California? I will have to leave Vancouver, eventually.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.” Clara’s mock laughter peters out as we turn onto Thurlow Street and The Newbury comes into view. “Though I’d like nothing more than to keep you close, I can’t be the one to clip your wings. You need to follow your heart and your dreams. It’s the way you move through the world.” Clara’s shrug tells me she has given significant thought to what our futures may hold. “I, on the other hand, am inclined to adhere to the typical parameters set in place. Don’t get me wrong, I am not at all disappointed by the prospect. Neither one is right or wrong. Just different.”
I tug on the door of the apartment building and hold it open for my sister. “Since I have your approval, all I need to do now is figure out how to accomplish such a feat.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Clara steps through the door and begins climbing the stairs to our third-floor apartment.
Knowing my whirring mind will make it impossible to sleep, I kiss Papa, who has been waiting up for us, good night. Grabbing a blanket from the cupboard, I settle myself on the sofa with a stack of motion-picture magazines. Determined to glean through interviews how today’s stars were discovered, I flip open the magazine on top and search for the featured interview. I take it as a good omen that Mary Pickford, born in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, stares back at me. Her warm smile and kind eyes tell me that anything is possible.