LITMIR.BIZ

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complications. Gwen had recently been engaged to a pilot killed during the air raids on Cologne. When asked what she would have done had he survived, she replied, ‘I’d have broken off the engagement. I really fell for Tommy.’ They married in Nicosia, Cyprus on 24 February 1947. Tommy was so poor she had to buy her own wedding ring, although he made up for it later with a diamond eternity ring. Their honeymoon was a single night snatched at the Savoy Hotel, Famagusta. When they walked through the door the man at reception called out, ‘Ah, Brigadier Cooper!’ Their friends in the concert party had booked them in as Brigadier and Mrs Cooper as a joke. Without an inkling of embarrassment she would admit they had not slept together before that night, which with characteristic frankness she always described as ‘bloody wonderful’.

      Throughout their life together he called her ‘Dove’. With her full-bodied figure she used to joke, ‘Anything less like a dove!’ Their daughter thinks the term of affection came about after a few drinks when ‘love’ turned to ‘dove’ and stuck. Maybe it came out of ‘lovey-dovey’. Whatever the derivation, there is unlikely to be any deep magical significance to the word, since Channing Pollock, the suave American deceptionist who popularized the manipulation of the birds in his brilliant stage act, did not arrive on the theatrical scene until the early Fifties.

      Gwen was five months older than her husband. She had been born in Eastbourne on 14 October 1920, the daughter of Thomas William Henty, a blacksmith’s assistant. The gift of a piano from her parents at the age of eleven was the defining ‘box of tricks’ moment in her own life. All who came to know her would identify with the irrepressible joie-de-vivre and sense of purpose that could have led her to personal stardom in her own right – a performer in the Tessie O’Shea mould with piano in lieu of banjulele – had she chosen that path. On her travels in the Middle East she had fast been gaining a reputation as an entertainer. Ragged press cuttings pasted in her scrapbook before she met Tommy reveal that she had a far wider range of talents than her known skills as an accompanist would suggest. Working under the ENSA banner in the touring show, Sunrise in 1945, she is reported: ‘The girl of many faces is something of a phenomenon. As the moth-eaten old charlady, she rocks the audience with laughter. As herself a few minutes later, she provokes that peculiar whistle which troops reserve for what they usually describe as “a bit of all right”. She more or less runs riot through the show.’ Another review, from Beirut, tells us, ‘She gets right to the hearts of the audience. She has a Gracie Fields personality, her character sketches have 100 per cent entertainment value, and her vivacious singing at the piano of a charming satire entitled, “Men – men – men!” produced roars of laughter.’ In Baghdad she is described as putting over ‘her own sophisticated Mae West-ish solo act, but she isn’t afraid to discard the glamour and paint her nose red in real slapstick stuff.’

      In the concert party she had been partnered in the ‘slapstick stuff’ by one Jimmy Murray, ‘an extremely good young comedian with a smooth and pleasant style.’ Upon marrying Tommy it was inevitable that they would contemplate a double act together. A large buff regulation notebook – emblazoned with a crown and ‘GR Supplied for the Public Service’– that Tommy kept up around this time provides some intriguing glimpses of their brief partnership on stage:

      Tommy: Hello, darling. Is dinner ready?

      Gwen: (Starts to cry)

      Tommy: What’s the matter, my sweet?

      Gwen: Y-you d-don’t l-love me any more.

      Tommy: Don’t be silly. What gave you that idea?

      Gwen: Well, we’ve been married now for five weeks and this is the first time you’ve been worried about food!

      One routine they worked on was a pastiche on American Broadcasting with its leaning towards product placement:

      Gwen: Hey, bighead. Get out of that bed. We’ve got a programme to do.

      Tommy: Will you quit yapping! Six o’clock in the morning. Who’s to listen to us? Some burglars, maybe. Oh boy,

      I’m tired.

      Gwen: Why don’t you stay home some night and try sleeping?

      Tommy: Sleeping? On that Pasternak Pussy-Willow Mattress? Pussy-Willow? It’s stuffed with cat hair. Every time

      I lie down on that cat hair my back arches!

      Gwen: Oh, stop grumbling! Here’s your tea!

      Tommy: It’s about time. (Sips) Phoo! (Spits) What are you trying to do? Poison me?

      Gwen: It’s that McKeesters’s Vita-Fresh Tea! It won’t kill you.

      Tommy: It won’t? Why do you think the government makes them put that skull and crossbones on the packet? (Tommy screams)

      Gwen: What is it?

      Tommy: Your hair! It looks as though you just took your head out of a mixer.

      It was obviously an act in progress. Gwen recalled in later years that they were once rehearsing in a room in Cairo. The slanging match was so convincing, the caretaker wanted to call the police. Later they tried a softer, kindlier, less negative approach:

      Gwen: Good morning, Tommy dear.

      Tommy: Good morning, Gwen angel.

      Gwen: Sweetheart, I must say you look refreshingly well-rested this morning.

      Tommy: Yes, thanks to our wonderful Pasternak Factory-Tested Pussy-Willow Mattress. The mattress that takes all the guess work out of sleeping. So soft and restful.

      Gwen: Yes, sweetums. Here’s your tea.

      Tommy: Thank you, doll. (Sips) Ahhh! What tea!! It must be –

      Gwen: You’re right, lovey. It’s McKeester’s Vita-Fresh Tea, the tea with that locked-up goodness for everybody.

      Tommy: Quick, darling. Another cup. Ahhhhhh!!

      Gwen: Oh, peach-nut! You’ve spilled some on your vest.

      Tommy: Good. Now I can try some of that Little Panther Spot Remover. No rubbing. Just slap some Little Panther on your vest and watch it eat the spot out.

      Gwen: And imagine – a big two-ounce bottle for only three pence farthing.

      Tommy: Or, if you are a messy eater, you can get the handy economical forty-gallon bottle.

      Gwen: Angel eyes, I have so much to say this morning.

      Tommy: Stop. Don’t move, Gwen.

      Gwen: But, darling!

      Tommy: Your hair is breathtaking. That sheen. That brilli ance. What did you do to it?

      And so on … ! After the war there is evidence that they tried out the act before a civilian audience at the Theatre Royal, Margate, but it was a non-starter. According to Gwen, Tommy wanted to stay together as a team, but she had never lost faith in that first impression of her husband as a single act through the glass partition on the Alexandria ferry. Her devotion and dedication to the man and his career would endure until the end of her days.

      Cooper was quintessentially a solo performer. In recent years the claims of one Frankie Lyons to have been part of a double act with him back in 1946 during the CSE years have to some people’s minds been exaggerated out of belief, not least when they were given additional importance when formulated in the mid-Nineties into a stage play by his son, Garry. An army concert party is by nature an informal organism, a makeshift showbusiness world in which all the members are expected to work alongside one another in sketches, musical numbers and passing exchanges of corny humour known in the trade as crossovers. Tommy’s exercise book provides us with examples. The initials could refer to ‘Cooper’ and ‘Frankie’, but more likely stand for ‘comic’ and ‘feed’:

      C.: Hello there.

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