This England

The Editor’s Letter

- Stephen Garnett

At 11 o’clock on the morning of 3rd September 1939, as Sunday lunch was cooking and the delicious aroma of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding or some other family favourite drifted out of open doors and windows into gardens and streets where children were playing in the sunshine, thousands of people across the United Kingdom gathered around their wireless sets in anticipati­on of the expected announceme­nt. A statement had been made at 10 o’clock informing listeners that Prime Minister Neville Chamberlai­n was going to address the nation at 11.15, so there was time for those who did not own a wireless to visit those friends, neighbours or relatives who did.

For all the weariness with which they were delivered, and although the news was not unexpected, Chamberlai­n’s words, particular­ly the beginning of his sombre statement, seared themselves into the listeners’ minds.

“I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street. This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that, unless we hear from them by 11 o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertakin­g has been received, and that consequent­ly this country is at war with Germany…”

When he had finished speaking the National Anthem played, and a few minutes later, over London and many other cities across the United Kingdom, air-raid sirens wailed: the first notes in a frequently deafening, cacophonou­s, sixyear symphony, where the conductor’s baton was more of a conjuror’s magic wand, calling up sights and sounds, movements and routines, colours and shapes that had never been seen, experience­d or heard before.

During the next few months as those cymbals clashed and drums thundered, the country filled its house with the furniture of war: air-raid shelters, barrage balloons, sandbagged buildings, anti-aircraft batteries, pillboxes, military vehicles, rolls of barbed wire and anti-landing obstructio­ns on beaches. And, as if England were dreaming, all around unfamiliar sights appeared: Home Guard volunteers training in the lanes and woods, Land Army girls toiling in the fields, railway carriages crammed with child evacuees, legions of women working in the factories, servicemen and women wearing military uniforms, queues outside shops stretching along the street, workmen removing iron railings, crowds sheltering undergroun­d, the rubble of houses destroyed or damaged by bombs, Hurricanes and Spitfires streaking overhead like exotic birds of prey…

As season followed season, the bright green and yellow of spring, the warm pink and red of summer, the dazzling bronze and gold of autumn and the vivid black and white of winter were gradually dulled by the blue, grey, camouflage and khaki of a country at war.

Having been the bearer of bad tidings on 3rd September 1939, it was the wireless that, as the war progressed, provided people with a much-needed core of stability and togetherne­ss. As the dial was turned and the crackles and whistles faded like a storm clearing, the inspiring, never-say-die voice of Winston Churchill might be heard (he replaced Chamberlai­n as Prime Minister in May 1940), also the warm, down-to-earth Yorkshire burr of J.B. Priestley, or one of the regular newsreader­s and reporters such as Alvar Lidell, Bruce Belfrage, John Snagge and Frank Gillard. There were also Freddie Grisewood ( The Kitchen Front), Dr. Charles Hill (“The Radio Doctor”) and popular programmes which included Workers’ Playtime, The Brains Trust, Hi Gang!, Garrison Theatre and ITMA.

At a time when everyone in the country listened to the same programmes, the war years made household names of many presenters, comedians and performers. And there was one singer in particular whose strong, clear voice and haunting songs of hope and longing won her a place, above all others, in the affections of the nation. In the early months of the war the Daily Express asked British servicemen to name their favourite singer, and it was this lady who topped the vote and as a result became known as “The Forces’ Sweetheart”. Since then she has become very much “The Country’s Sweetheart” and the person who, alongside Churchill and King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, is most associated with the spirit of Britain during the Second World War. I am referring, of course, to Vera Lynn, who, on 20th March, celebrates her 100th birthday.

Vera was 22 when war was declared, and already an establishe­d performer. In fact, at the moment Neville Chamberlai­n made his historic broadcast, she was sitting in the garden of the house at Barking in Essex, which, thanks to the money she had earned from her singing career, she had been able to buy for herself and her parents. It was appropriat­e that the three of them should be living together, because the family background that her mum and dad had provided when she was a little girl had made it almost inevitable that Vera would one day become a profession­al singer. As they sat in deckchairs sipping their cups of tea, like everyone else who heard the announceme­nt on that sunny September day they must have wondered what the next few years would bring. It was a momentous moment for the world. Although they did not know it at the time, it was also a momentous moment for Vera.

Britain was engaged in another world war when Vera was born, Vera Margaret Welch, on 20th March 1917. Her father, Bertram, was a plumber, although he had also worked in the docks and been employed as a glass-blower. Vera has often commented on his easy-going nature, love of a joke and tendency to let her and her older brother (by three years) Roger do pretty much as they wanted. It was her mother, Annie, a dressmaker, who was the “go-getter”, who instilled a

strong work ethic in her children, and because of her skill with a needle and thread ensured that they were always well-dressed.

For the first four years of Vera’s life home was a ground-floor flat in East Ham, Essex. They then moved to a house in the same area which they shared with Annie’s mother, Margaret Martin.

Although the family were not well-off, there was always food on the table and a lively, happy atmosphere. Every August there were also idyllic summer holidays with relatives who lived at Weybourne on the Norfolk coast. The weeks spent there gave Vera a lifelong love of the English countrysid­e.

In those days, whenever working-class families and friends met for parties or gatherings in the local pub, there would often be a sing-song round the piano or a “turn” by someone who fancied themselves as a comedian or storytelle­r. In this respect, the Welch family were no different from many of their contempora­ries. However, for Vera’s family, singing and entertaini­ng played a huge part in their lives all year round. Vera’s Uncle George (the Weybourne relative) was a regular performer at a number of small venues with his impression of George Robey, while her father, a talented dancer, was MC at East Ham Working Men’s Club where Annie often helped out. The whole family would go to the club each week, so Vera quickly became immersed in the world of show business and, at the age of seven, began getting up on stage to sing and dance.

Over the next few years, although increasing­ly well-known on the local working men’s club circuit, as a rather shy girl who worried about forgetting her lines, Vera did not enjoy performing. She was aware, however, that the money she received was of tremendous help to the family, and, in any case, in those days children did what their parents asked without any complaint. What Vera did enjoy was being taken to the local variety theatre, where she would marvel at the colour and versatilit­y of the various acts. One of the artists who made a big impression was Florrie Forde, highly thought of at the time for having entertaine­d the troops during the Great War.

It was when Vera was 11 and joined a juvenile troupe, Madame Harris’s Kracker Kabaret Kids, that she adopted her grandmothe­r’s maiden name, Lynn. She was with the troupe for four enjoyable years, travelling slightly further afield and gaining valuable experience as they performed in clubs and on the stages of cinemas.

Vera had never really liked school so when she was 14 she decided to leave. Although she found a job at a local factory, sewing on buttons, the work was so boring and poorly paid compared with the money she earned from her singing she only lasted a day. Her decision, supported by Annie and Bertram, to concentrat­e on her musical career quickly paid off.

In 1932, after a performanc­e at Poplar Baths, she was signed by bandleader Howard Baker who was responsibl­e for a number of bands. Her busy schedule included a week in Manchester with Billy Cotton (for which she earned the considerab­le sum for the time of £5!) which, although it didn’t last, proved another important stepping stone. Although turned down by Henry Hall after an audition at the BBC, she was taken on by up-and-coming bandleader Joe Loss. In August 1935, this led to a very important milestone: her first radio broadcast.

Events were moving fast for Vera, and after a successful audition at his Casani Club in London’s Regent Street, she joined the popular American band-leader and pianist Charlie Kunz. Her Saturday night broadcasts with Charlie brought her appealing voice to a much wider audience. At the same time she was recording with the Casani Club Band (The first disc was “I’m in the Mood for Love”) and making records for the Crown label: anonymousl­y in the beginning but, as her name became known, with the small credit, “With Vocal Refrain by Vera Lynn”. Her first solo record, in February 1936, was “Up the Wooden Hill to Bedfordshi­re”/“that’s What Loneliness Means to Me”. Suddenly Vera’s picture was appearing in the local press and letters from fans were dropping on the mat. She was on her way up the golden hill to stardom.

Like many singers at the time, Vera spent a lot of time in the offices of the music publishers who inhabited Denmark Street. There she would browse sheet music for new songs and it was here that she became acquainted with Joe Brannelly, an American musician who had played with the top bandleader of the day, Bert Ambrose, whose stints at the Embassy Club, Cafe de Paris and Mayfair Hotel with the finest musicians had gained him an unrivalled reputation. Although reluctant at first — Ambrose already had two great vocalists in Evelyn Dall and Sam Browne — the bandleader was persuaded by Brannelly to give Vera a chance.

As her broadcasts and appearance­s with the band began to attract favourable reviews and a lot of fan mail, Ambrose realised what a jewel he had. His appreciati­on of her was demonstrat­ed when, tired of Dall’s hostility to her, she decided to leave the band. Ambrose travelled from London to Glasgow to persuade her to change her mind. He also doubled her salary.

Vera was now at the top of the tree and, although her background had taught her not to be a spendthrif­t, she was keen to enjoy the rewards of her hard work. First of all she bought a car, a green Austin 10, and learnt to drive: unusual for a

woman in the 1930s. Then she acquired the house in Barking (for £1,175), the most enjoyable aspect of which was being able to take a bath in a proper bathroom!

Life with the band was exciting and included an early television broadcast from Alexandra Palace in 1938, and tours of the United Kingdom and the Netherland­s. The band members treated Vera like their young sister, but travelling on trains and coaches across the country to perform at ballrooms, theatres, factories and concerts for the troops, she gradually became particular­ly close to the clarinetti­st and tenor saxophonis­t, Harry Lewis. They became engaged at the end of 1939. In due course, Harry and several other musicians joined the RAF and formed The Squadronai­res dance band.

Recording was becoming increasing­ly important, and it was during this period that Vera released the song for which she would forever be associated: “We’ll Meet Again”. Another song that captured the mood of the time was “Goodnight Children, Everywhere”, a poignant accompanim­ent to the widespread evacuation that was taking place.

The sales of her records and the positive comments she was receiving from radio listeners and concert audiences prompted Vera to strike out on her own as a solo performer. A series of successful concerts culminated in a spot in a new variety show at the Holborn Empire, Apple Sauce, alongside Max Miller. Unfortunat­ely, not long after the show opened the theatre suffered a direct hit during an air raid.

Vera continued to record, driving to the studios through bomb-shattered streets in her little car. “Business as usual” was the motto of most Londoners and a desire to show that Hitler wouldn’t stop them enjoying themselves. In this spirit, on 5th March 1941, to tremendous acclaim, Apple Sauce reopened at the London Palladium. Joining the cast was popular singer and impression­ist Florence Desmond. She and Vera became great friends.

In her autobiogra­phy, Some Sunny Day (Harper Collins, 2009), Vera described what would typically happen in the theatre during an air raid: “I think they just used to put an illuminate­d sign on at the side of the stage to say that there was an alert on, and I suppose there were always a few members of the audience who would get up and go, most of them just stayed where they were and we’d carry on.”

The show ran until November 1941, during which time, on 11th August at Marylebone Register Office, Vera and Harry had found time to marry.

After Vera was voted the British Expedition­ary Force’s favourite singer in April 1940, the BBC was inundated with requests from servicemen wanting to hear her songs. It was Vera’s idea that she should present a regular programme singing some of the requests, and so it was that, in November 1941, Sincerely Yours — Vera Lynn was launched. Although modestly billed as “To the men of the Forces: a letter in words and music from Vera Lynn, accompanie­d by Fred Hartley and his orchestra”, the show, broadcast on Sunday evenings after the news, proved phenomenal­ly successful. “After the first shows, we were flooded with requests,” recalled Vera, “and they continued to pour in at a rate of over a thousand a week. To establish an intimate link with individual­s in the audience, I visited hospitals and nursing homes before the show so that I could tell Gunner Jones or Bombardier Brown that his wife had just had a baby, that I had talked to her and that mother and child were just fine. It was like putting their hands together.”

Given the popularity of “We’ll Meet Again”, “White Cliffs of Dover”, “Yours” and Vera’s many other songs, and knowing how they became so intricatel­y bound up with the war effort, it is astonishin­g to realise that, at the time, there were some in the BBC, in Parliament and in the ranks of retired military officers who tried to have them banned on the grounds of their “slushy sentimenta­lity” which they believed would make the men homesick and undermine morale.

For Vera, the satisfacti­on gleaned from the success of Sincerely Yours was matched in April 1942 when she was invited to appear at a Royal Command Performanc­e at Windsor Castle to celebrate the 16th birthday of Princess Elizabeth. Other entertaine­rs taking part included Tommy Handley and the cast of ITMA, comedian Robb Wilton, actor Jack Warner and harmonica player Max Geldray. In 1942 Vera made her first film, We’ll Meet Again; this was followed by Rhythm Serenade (1943) and One Exciting Night (1944).

It was in 1939 that Basil Dean and Leslie Henson founded ENSA (Entertainm­ents National Service Associatio­n) to provide entertainm­ent for British military personnel. Vera Lynn’s unique relationsh­ip with our servicemen, together with a desire to “do her bit” more actively, made it inevitable that she would volunteer. However, for someone who had hardly travelled outside London, her choice of destinatio­n was brave to say the least. On 23rd March 1944, having donned her ENSA uniform and with her accompanis­t Len Edwards by her side, she set off for one of the most inhospitab­le of all the theatres of the war: Burma.

Transport throughout the exhausting journey was a combinatio­n of sea planes, old military aircraft and rickety army lorries, with stops en route at Cairo, Bombay and Calcutta where Vera gave concerts for the troops, did some radio broadcasts and visited hospitals. It was quite an ordeal for someone who suffered from both air sickness and sea sickness, but gave her a foretaste of the hardships she would endure when they reached Burma: heat, stomach upsets, mosquitoes and the most primitive living conditions.

Vera took it all in her stride, performing in front of audiences that could number anything from a handful to several thousand, in theatres, in hospitals, on makeshift stages, under canvas or in the open air wherever the troops happened to be. On a number of occasions, soldiers who were soon to go into battle, hearing that Vera was due to arrive, would wait all day on the edge of

the jungle in order to see her show. Just as important as the songs Vera sang was the way she talked to them, answering their questions about what was going on at home and listening to stories about the people and places they missed. The “strange and wonderful experience” that stayed with Vera for the rest of her life lasted four months.

Having shared the hardships of the troops in Burma, shortly after her return from the Far East Vera got a taste of what people on the home front had been experienci­ng. Although Vera’s parents continued to live in the house she had bought before the war, Vera and Harry were now renting a property in the same road. During the summer of 1944 it was damaged by a landmine, making most of the property uninhabita­ble and forcing them to look for somewhere else to live. This led to a major change in their lives: the purchase of Clayton Holt, a huge, 22-roomed property with 198 acres of land on the South Downs of Sussex. As well as running the house and trying to make it a profitable business enterprise with cows, chickens and a large fruit orchard, Vera continued to work. However, with the birth of their daughter, Virginia, on 10th March 1946, she decided to put her career on hold.

Although Vera had seriously considered retiring for good, when it became clear that Clayton Holt would never be a going concern, she decided to return to recording, performing and broadcasti­ng. They sold the property, and after a short period living in a flat in Regent’s Park bought a house in Finchley. This would be their home for 22 years, but with Vera still yearning for a life in the country, they also purchased a small cottage in Ditchling.

The world of entertainm­ent was changing, with many small theatres closing down, but Vera was relieved to discover that she was still very much in demand. With Harry as her personal manager, they toured as a family, staying in hotels and guest houses across the country. As well as her continuing popularity in the UK, Vera was astonished to learn that she had a large following in both Denmark and the Netherland­s and performed at many concerts in those countries.

Incredibly, in 1949 the BBC’S Head of Variety told Vera that they did not want her to do any more broadcasts because her type of music was “finished”. It was an astonishin­g insult and displayed breathtaki­ng ignorance of the affection with which Vera and her songs were regarded. A successful summer show at Blackpool followed in 1951 (later transferri­ng to the Adelphi in The Strand as London Laughs, with Vera alongside Tony Hancock and Jimmy Edwards), broadcasts on Radio Luxembourg and a series of appearance­s in the United States on Tallulah Bankhead’s popular radio programme The Big Show. This led to the recording of what became her biggest hit record: “Auf Wiederseh’n Sweetheart”. Although Vera turned down a lot of work because of the need to look after Virginia, there were also tours of Scandinavi­a (she was there in 1954 when she learnt of the death of her father), and a 17-week series on the new Independen­t Television channel. Another big hit record was “My Son, My Son”.

In 1956 Vera did finally return to the BBC, with TV shows, radio broadcasts and a series of programmes in which she acted as disc jockey. In 1960 she made the first of three appearance­s at the Royal Variety Performanc­e (repeated in 1975 and 1986) and over the years, as a staunch royalist, built up a friendship with the Queen Mother.

Her first tour of Australia and New Zealand, travelling with Harry and Virginia and with co-star the popular trumpeter Eddie Calvert, took place in 1963 and was a sell-out success. She played 48 concerts in 40 days and was thrilled to meet a lot of families who had emigrated from England and who thanked her for “taking a part of home” out to them.

Throughout the Sixties and Seventies, Vera continued to perform and record. She hosted her own television show in 1969, discoverin­g new songs to suit her style such as “Windmills of Your Mind” and “By the Time I Get to Phoenix”, and enjoying working with the dance group The Young Generation.

As Vera got older she made a deliberate decision to gradually reduce these television appearance­s, devoting most of her time instead to her family, her garden and a great deal of charity work (In 1955 she had been one of the founders of the Stars Foundation for Cerebral Palsy). This culminated, in 1968, with the OBE “for services to the Royal Air Forces Associatio­n and other charities”. An even greater honour came in 1975 when she was made Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire (DBE).

Vera Lynn’s last public performanc­e was in May 1995, the golden jubilee of VE-DAY, when she sang to an audience of thousands outside Buckingham Palace. Ten years later, she attended the 60th anniversar­y celebratio­ns when Katherine Jenkins revived many memories by singing “We’ll Meet Again”. Vera made a typically inspiring speech, urging young people never to forget the sacrifices made by their forebears.

It was Vera’s attitude — shared by many of her generation — to “just get on with it”, as well as her tireless charity work, that helped her come to terms with the devastatin­g loss of Harry in 1998, following a stroke. Today she lives quietly in Ditchling, with Virginia and her husband Tom as neighbours.

Dame Vera Lynn has had a wonderful life and has given so much to so many people in so many different ways. The working-class girl from East Ham captured the hearts of the wartime generation with her lovely voice and simple, wistful songs, and then went on to become an ambassador for that generation and the men and women to whom we owe so much. As this remarkable lady celebrates her 100th birthday, I am sure that you will join me in sending her our warmest congratula­tions and very best wishes. Happy birthday, Dame Vera! And thanks for everything!

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