Patricia the Stripper
Side 1, Track 4
This is another in a series of stories drawn from the 1975 Chris de Burgh album, Spanish Train And Other Stories. I have endeavoured to be faithful to the spirit of the stories and in some cases include lyrics relevant to tell the tale. As with any fiction, there will also be cases where some license is taken to create and complete a story line.
When the war ended it was a relief for Patricia. She would not be losing any more boyfriends to the trenches or to lives that were forever altered by what they had seen or heard. She would never really know what it had been like for those who had lived through it, but that was 1918. Now it was 1924 and not only was life different, she felt very different.
She had a job during the war. Britain needed young women like her to drive trucks, become radio operators, do the clerical work, act as translators, or like Patricia, work in munitions factories.
"They called us Munitionettes." She said to yet another man at yet another job interview. Like all the other job interviews the answer would come back the same. "Sorry dear; we are not sure you have the qualifications or experience to work in this office.”
Her work in the munitions factory had given her money of her own and earned her some independence. She even had a little place near the wharf with a view of the Thames. The work continued for a while after the war but eventually munitions production diminished; the men had been demobbed and were back home clamouring for their old jobs. Patricia and other women like her were no longer needed beyond some of the temporary work she managed to find to keep body and soul together.
She and many of her friends were flexing their independence by starting to rebel against what was happening around them. They wore the latest closely bobbed hair styles. Where their dresses should have been cut high, they were showing off the neckline and shoulders. Hemlines were no longer cut low and instead showed off some knee, shocking other women and their husbands who pretended to be shocked as well, but who could not resist taking an extra peek as their wives dragged them away.
"We have no damn chance," she said to the woman sitting across from her. "There were millions of us working during the war. We kept England going. We'll be able to vote soon. But get a decent job? Keep us in the kitchen or the bedroom. That's it."
Maud rolled her eyes and said, "Yes. And Lord, I am so terribly bored. I really can't stand it anymore!"
"Come on Maud darling, time to fight back, dammit. Let's go."
Before they could pay for their gin and tonics and leave, the waiter came by and pointed to another table and said the gentleman had paid for their drinks. He was a thin man, hair brushed back and held in place by Brilliantine which had finally made its way into British shops from France. His pencil moustache had also been groomed and greased to shine. Scarf around his neck, he was not altogether unattractive.
There was a bit of Douglas Fairbanks about him so as they passed by Patricia stopped, twirled her long pearl necklace around her hand, leaned in, and whispered, "We'll be here on Friday night.”
They went straight to Marks & Spencer, shared their plight with the shopgirls, and bought the rouge, powder, eyeliner, and lipstick to complete the transformation into one of the bright young things of their generation. On the way to Patricia's flat to work on their new look they made one more stop. Neither had much money left to spend but they couldn't resist new stockings made from the hottest new material. Rayon. And of course, new garters.
They spent the week wafting about London. They listened to jazz, went to the cinema, eschewed tea time and drank coffee instead. They smoked in public!
When Friday rolled around, they were ready to meet with the gentleman who had bought their drinks. They headed to the wine house late in the afternoon, entered through the ladies’ entrance, and looked around for their gentleman friend. No sooner were they inside than the waiter asked them to follow him and they were taken through to a corner booth. He was there along with two other very sheik young men and several women, all about the same age as Patricia and Maude. All dressed in the latest fashion, drinking cocktails, and laughing out loud.
Patricia sat down beside their new friend and held out her hand.
“Patricia.”
“Patricia,” he said in the finest of public-school accents. “I am Dennis. They say I am a menace, and my dear, you are delicious.”
He stood up to get the attention of everyone in the booth, and announced, “This is Patricia and she is simply Delicia, and she will be our new best friend.”
Maud had seated herself at the other end of the booth and one of the young women she was sitting with took her turn to stand up, lifted her Pimms, and let everyone know their other new best friend was “Maud and oh gawd, she is divine”.
The next twenty-four hours were dizzying. First, they all went to a jazz club. The Cecil was unlike anywhere Patricia had been. Everything was pink, white, and gold. The 5-piece band had a piano, violin, saxophone, banjo, and drums. And a dancefloor! They danced the Charleston and drank from hip flasks the men had in their jacket pockets and the women had tucked under their skirts and held by a garter.
The world was turning fast for Patricia.
Dennis had a Bentley Red label touring automobile and two of the other young men also had autos. Soon they were all out of the club and headed to a party.
And it was one swell party. The house in one of the best parts of London belonged to a judge who was said to be away at his country place. No one knew who was home to host the party. As they piled out of the three cars, Dennis yelled, “Anyone for tennis?” and was begging, “Patricia, please do come and keep score,” then he and Maud took up racquets while the rest of the group scattered around the grounds and into the house.
No need for hip flasks here. Liqueur and brandy cocktails were plentiful.
Someone was sitting at the grand piano and playing decidedly unclassical music. Patricia loved to sing and joined the piano player to sing Second Hand Rose.
The music, the people, and the liquor were starting to consume Patricia. As she sang, she glided around the piano waving her pearls and letting the fringe of her dress swirl around her. A group of partiers gathered around and started clapping. Patricia took off her cloche and threw it out into the room. Off came her long, lace, fingerless gloves, and up they went before drifting gently into the hands of a boyish-looking young man in his striped blazer. Then the feather and rhinestone headpiece went high in the air and everyone scrambled to catch it.
Before anything more hit the floor, Maud sidled up to Patricia, who was by now adding some weight to her Delicia moniker, and said quietly, "Better stop there dear. The men are tumbling down in heaps and gathering at your very feet. They are getting the message.”
Sometime around three a.m. they managed to find their automobiles and Patricia and Maude were deposited at their flats with the promise that they would all meet again that night. As the roadster sped away Dennis yelled, “Something special for you Patricia Delicia! A teaserama of an evening ahead!”
That evening was chilly when Dennis arrived for another night out and he was wearing his raccoon coat. He offered a creamy-coloured fur coat to Patricia to keep her warm.
"Remember love, I am the menace and you are certainly no dumb-dora. Tonight, we meet in Piccadilly and you shall get your lips wet from a glass of 1924 you have never sipped from before."
The auto was soon parked; Dennis put on his flat-brimmed hat, tossed his raccoon coat into the jump seat, and they walked down the street to meet the rest. Maud was already there in the company of one of the men dressed in a patterned vest and his own brand of sporty hat with a wide and wild hatband.
They entered the club after Dennis slipped a pound note into the pocket of the doorman. The jazz was loud, the room was dark, and the tables were lit with candles. They found a table close to the stage which was empty and only dimly lit. Champagne appeared as did another one of Dennis' acquaintances.
He looked at Patricia in a way that should have made her feel uncomfortable but it was 1924, she wanted all the attention she could stir up. Like all young women, she was looking to her freedom and like all young people wanted more distance between her and the war.
"Dennis you are a menace indeed for keeping her hidden away so," and turning back to Patricia, "men must hang around you in groups my dear, like battle-weary troops. Home from war and looking for comfort and peace."
A small jazz combo had made their way to an area next to the stage and the lights were up, but the new addition at the table kept looking at Patricia. Finally, he rose from his chair, straightened the jacket of his tuxedo, adjusted his bowtie, took a drink of Patricia's champagne, and walked onto the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen, flappers and sheiks, men and women, darbs and dames."
A solo clarinet had started to play.
"Welcome to the show of shows on another night of nights. Please remain in your seat, do not rush the stage, and if you feel faint at the sights you are about to see,” he paused, surveyed the room, and yelled, "have some more champagne!"
And as the crowd loudly expressed their agreement, the rest of the band joined the clarinet, a spotlight played around the room, and a chorus line of dancers appeared. They were a precision team of dancers. Almost military to Patricia's eye. Matched in height and hairstyles, they hopped with the music, arm-in-arm sideways across to centre stage, then stopped and did their tap and kick routine. Arms still locked; their legs kicked high as did their dresses which had the audience roaring at the sight. From one side of the stage a lone woman moved gracefully behind the line. Without missing a beat, the line of eight dancers dropped to the floor and continued their routine with feet moving and legs kicking. The lone dancer was now more visible and doing her own routine behind them, bending into shapes that brought sighs, gasps, and applause.
The line of girls in front of her rose up until they were bent at the waist and continued to bob, weave, and kick while the star performer — now only half visible — threw her dress out and onto the stage in front of the dancers. Then with a flourish the chorus line did their sideways tap across the stage, shielding the now dress-less dancer off and into the wings.
The evening continued with more dancers, skits, and songs and the show began to wind down.
"My honoured guests this evening," said the show's emcee. "I have one more treat for you.”
With exaggerated movement he peered around the room as if hunting for that treat until he was looking straight at Patricia's table.
"When I first saw this young lady perform for a very private audience last night, she brought the whole room to their knees and I would like to call upon her to bring you that same gift of song and dance she brought to me. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce to you: Patricia.” He paused, then said deliberately, “Also known as Delicia.” Another pause. “And soon to be known as the best stripper in town!"
Patricia did not lack confidence and she was not afraid to show off her body, but being in the spotlight was a shock. The band had obviously been told what was coming and struck up the same song from the party. And Patricia performed with the same flourish. When she finished there was a hush across the room and for a moment her confidence fell away as easily as the lace gloves had gone. Then a wave of clapping spread across the crowd and everyone stood and cheered.
Patricia, now The Stripper, was not sure of the next move. She saw Maud in the wings and with a swish of her hips she moved off stage to join her. She was flushed from the experience and Maud was ecstatic and squealing "Oh Lord, I am certainly not so bored anymore!"
The emcee who happened to own the club had been waiting with Maud as well. He gave Patricia an envelope.
"We have to pay everyone who appears on stage Patricia, and you earned every shilling."
Over the next few weeks on and off the stage and with Maud's help, Patricia honed her act.
Like all good school girls, they had learned to sew and with streamlined silhouettes being in vogue, dresses were simpler to alter and restyle. But as Patricia had learned from her appearances so far, the body God had given her made fat men want to be thinner just so they could be with her.
"I know, I know,” lamented the newly minted dance hall sensation. "Even in Photoplay they want to flatten our busts. Not for me. Everyone wants to see what I have to offer, Maud."
They set about their alterations with a purpose. Easy-to-open clips were strategically put in place. Step-in chemises were taken in at all the right spots to add emphasis where emphasis would get attention. Brassieres were nipped and tucked and more clips, snaps, buttons, and bows created some extra allure. The fur coat Dennis had let her wear the night of her surprise show was now hers to drive the men mad when she took it off AND when she slipped it back on as she exited the stage.
There was a fine line for Patricia to walk and the owner of the club warned her, "You need to be the good girl in stockings and arouse men without arousing the law. It may be 1924 and some of our", he rolled his eyes as he said, "Patrons" then went on, "May well be judges, lawyers, and even bobbies, but others have conniption fits."
Patricia knew where the invisible line was in front of her and she was good at walking it.
Saturday night was always the best night. The best skits and musicians were held for that night. The room was always buzzing and the chorus line fed off the buzz. The regulars were always there and always brought along friends, wives, and lovers. It was also the night when some of those new faces did not always appreciate what was in front of them and walked out. Patricia never understood why their hosts for the evening had not prepared them. Or why they ignored the poster that said, “This show is not suitable for your aunt from Little Bolton!”
In the dressing room, Maud helped her with the makeup and to get dressed. Patricia's eyes were ringed to perfection. Her lips scarlet so that even those at the back of the house would see them glisten when Patricia rolled her tongue around her mouth. The hair on each side of her face was curled meticulously. Tonight, there was a curl falling down right on the middle of her forehead. Two strings of extra-long pearls. A stylish felt hat. Lace gloves that hooked over her fingers and carried on up to her elbow. Silk stockings.
Patricia Delicia was ready.
The jazz band was ready.
It was always good to start with a slow number and the band had mastered their own version of Second Hand Rose. It was a chance for Patricia to manoeuvre out of her hat and gloves and offer a glimpse of legs. Then they would have a middle bounce and finish with an up-tempo flourish. They had rehearsed and re-worked and rehearsed the act some more. They had hit the point where it attracted a crowd who often queued right down the street on Saturday nights. All eager to see the show.
So, like all her Saturday nights recently, when Patricia (or should we say Delicia), heard the music she gave a kick from the wings for everyone to see and worked her way across the stage.
And with a swing of her hips, she started to strip.
The straps of her dress slid off her shoulders and she shimmied and shook until she could step out of it.
And with a lick of her lips, she undid all the clips, the buttons, and the hooks.
Then to tremendous applause she took off her drawers.
She threw it all in the air and everyone stared.
And the room roared.
The music hit the final tempo and as her last piece of clothing fell to the floor, suddenly the police were banging on the door of the club.
Fourteen plain-clothes officers led by a uniformed sergeant had descended on the premises. No one tried to stop them as they threw open the doors and rushed in.
Patricia left the stage, rather in a hurry of course, grabbing her full-length fur coat as she fled. In no time she found herself face-to-face with the uniformed officer.
The Sunday Mirror report the next morning said the police had converged in taxicabs from different directions. Immediately on arriving the report continued, they "united in a body and rushed the entrance before their identity could be suspected.” It was said they dashed into the room to find a "fashionable throng of fifty people including several well-known in the social world" and soon had apprehended the talk of the city, Patricia Delicia.
The newspaper report for that Saturday night in 1924 was not complete however.
As they took poor Patricia and several of the influential patrons away, many protested while others said a summer in gaol should be the punishment for the gorgeous sinner.
They all arrived at the Cannon Row police station where the judge had already been summoned.
He recognized her immediately and exclaimed to everyone waiting to hear his decision,
"Patricia, or may I say, Delicia. The facts of this case,” and with a wink and a nod. “Stand before me."
He banged the table three times.
"Case dismissed."
He looked around the room before he continued, “She has done nothing wrong. This girl was in her working clothes!"
And with a lick of her lips and a swing of her hips, Patricia's fur coat fell to the floor and all the while the police were now yelling out for more.
Another Saturday night in 1924!
