In the summer of 1977 I was in my early 20s and about to go up to Edinburgh to perform in a play on
the fringe. But three days before rehearsals were due to start, the director phoned to say that the play was off.
To ease my disappointment, he asked me if I’d like to work for Bing Crosby for a couple of weeks. The famous crooner was coming to London to record a Christmas Special at Elstree Studios. I gave a noncommittal answer and then forgot about it. All I wanted was a good mope.
Two hours later the phone rang and someone with an American accent asked to speak to Jo Ross.
“Speaking.”
“This is Bing Crosby.”
“Oh, stop it – it’s not even funny. Anyway, he’s been dead for years.”
Twenty toe-curlingly embarrassing minutes later I found myself employed as Mr Crosby’s ‘gofer’. My duties seemed to be remarkably light: take Mr Crosby to the set each morning, run errands for him, make sure his car was waiting for him at the end of the day.
I reported for duty in a dark green Mini Moke that I had borrowed from my boyfriend. It had long since lost its canvas sides and the petrol gauge did not work. It was a disgrace.
Elstree was huge. When I got there, the sound stage was being converted into the interior of a typical English manor house, with a drawing room the size of Westminster Abbey. In the rehearsal room, leaning against a piano, was a small, upright man with a pale blue trilby hat on the back of his head.
“Hi there,” said Bing Crosby. “How you doin’? Gonna show me round? Can you show me where to get coffee?”
“Certainly,” I replied. I hadn’t a clue where to get a coffee. Bing was very relaxed and chatty, and pretended not to notice that I was lost. Eventually we reached a junction in the corridor.
With a wry smile, Bing suggested that we turn left. “What d’you think? Shall we risk it?”
Pretty soon I was having a ball. Bing was undemanding – and rather shy. I thought he was adorable and was thrilled when one day he asked for a lift back to his hotel. Twenty minutes later we were chugging along in the Mini Moke, when suddenly the engine cut out. I hopped out and started looking pointlessly under the bonnet.
A voice from the front seat asked, “Could you have run out of gas?”
Of course. Bing and I stood by the side of the road waiting for someone to give us a lift to a petrol station.
Eventually, a little car heaving with children stopped. The driver, a middle-aged man, approached us, his eyes bulging.
“You… you… you…”
“Yep,” said Bing. “We’re out of gas. Can you give me a ride to a garage?”
“Me?… You?… Me… me… and you? Kids, out, get out… Get out of the car!”
Two minutes later I was standing by the road with four bewildered children, watching Bing Crosby disappear in a Ford Fiesta.
When the car returned with petrol, the fan insisted on pouring it into the tank. Then he bundled the now-furious children into the Fiesta and with a final “You… you…”, drove off.
Bing ended his Christmas Special, unsurprisingly, with ‘White Christmas’. The studio was packed for the recording. Bing asked to see me in the make-up room.
“Hey, Lefty,” he said, using the nickname he’d given me when he discovered I was a southpaw. “Write me out an idiot board, would you?”
“Yes, of course. What for?”
“?‘White Christmas.’?”
There was stunned silence in the make-up room. Could it be that Bing Crosby did not know the words? He explained that he needed a cue card because he had trouble remembering the verse at the very beginning. Somehow I found some large white cards and a marker pen. I scrawled out the first verse and took up my prearranged position under the piano.
As the band struck up, Bing looked down and began to sing these lines:
The sun is shining
The grass is green
The orange and plum trees sway
There’s never been such a day
In Beverly Hills LA
The grass is green
The orange and plum trees sway
There’s never been such a day
In Beverly Hills LA
He was about to continue with “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas” when he faltered, took another look at the card and… stopped singing. The music cut out. Bing got down on his hands and knees and crawled under the piano. He took my hand and very quietly said, “There isn’t a plum tree in LA.”
Fearing one of us had lost the plot, I gripped his hand and said, “That’s a pity.”
A little less gently now, he stabbed at where I’d written the word “plum”. “It’s palm trees, palm trees, palm trees.”
It was awful. From my position under the piano I thought of what a useless gofer I’d been and how often I’d let Bing down, even forgetting to bring the clubs when he was playing golf. Yet he had always responded with humour and grace. Now he’d fluffed his lines – all because of me.
The rest of the day was a blur of sets being taken down and costumes packed up. People were saying their goodbyes, making plans for farewell drinks.
I wanted to say goodbye to Bring and to apologise, but I couldn’t find him. Feeling oddly empty and depressed, I wandered outside, thinking that I’d never see him again. Then I heard a familiar voice.
“Hey Lefty! Can you give me a ride?” There was Bing in the front seat of the Moke, one foot perched on the dashboard.
“Absolutely,” I said. “London?”
“Why not – shall we risk it?”
Five weeks later, Bing Crosby died of a heart attack while playing golf in Spain. He was 74 years old.
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