Picture the scene, boy, my Grandfather said as he jiggled me on his knee and blew cigar smoke in my face. I was seven years old and wanted a story.

It’s a sunny day. Dead calm with the rich and richer working on their expensive yachts and power boats, pulling a sheet, tightening a cleat, splicing a rope and asking ‘permission to come aboard’. This is before afternoon drinks at the clubhouse and the coveting of thy neighbour’s wife.

A rumour blew in quickly from the Commodore’s office, that Vivian Leigh would visit the Royal Australian Yacht Squadron late that afternoon. There were frantic phone calls for maids to fetch frocks, best suits and shoes.

Vivian Leigh was a famous movie star, boy. Replace her name with any of your current social media skyrockets, decaying in an eternity of bits and bytes, but know that she was a real star.

The Commodore started his welcoming speech over a scotch. Quite a few of the women had a champagne or two as they got ready. The men groomed themselves. Lint was plucked from blue jackets. Young children were told to behave because Vivian Leigh, the famous actress was coming.

The Commodore’s committee and the Sailing committee, inspected the grounds. Every yacht and power boat was ordered to fly the ensign.

It was a hot afternoon. The women gathered under the verandah and drank wine and sherry. The men sat near the BBQ area and drank beer and whiskey. One or two of the men got rowdy but that was to be expected. Miss Leigh was beautiful and the thought that she would visit them, was a great compliment.

The maids were told to make sure the children were smartly dressed, especially the boys. They shooed flies away from the food platters and refilled glasses as the afternoon wore on.

Someone yelled, “I hear a car coming,” and the women gathered by the banksia on the driveway. The men put their drinks down.

It was only old Swogger, the cray fisherman, wanting to know if anyone wanted to buy some fresh crayfish.

“Bugger off Swogger,” they said. “Can’t you see we’re waiting for Vivian Leigh?”

“Who’s that?” he said and headed off towards his boat.

The Commodore’s wife, Lydia Flintoff-Jones, said considering the wait, it was her duty to organise some official protocol. The owners of the larger boats – over 50 feet – would meet Vivian first, and if there was time, then the owners of the smaller craft.

This didn’t go down well with the smaller yacht owners. Some had been members of the club for many years. They said they should meet Viv first, because if it wasn’t for them, there wouldn’t be a club.

The Commodore had sunk a few scotches working on his speech but he could see where all this was heading. “I’ll meet Viv first,” he said, “introduce her around and then take her out on our boat to the breakwater and back.”

A few ripples of rancour ran through the older cubbies but it seemed like a compromise. Rank brings some rewards and she’d arrive soon.

Some of the younger women had started drinking lemon daiquiris and wanted to know if Laurence Olivier would be with Viv. It seemed only proper they said, that her husband should attend. No one knew if Larry was coming but the young women certainly hoped so.

About 7.00pm, shadows crept across the rolling lawns. A freshening sea breeze blew, bringing out shawls and coats with gold buttons. Some of the old hands said this pommy shiela doesn’t know shit about sailing, leaving it so late in the day, with the wind swinging around to the south west and the barometer falling.

The powerboat skippers agreed and said it was just like a film star to put on airs and graces. The Commodore’s wife, Lydia Flintoff-Jones, said it was a disgrace – and who said that bloody Vivian Leigh was coming anyway? One of the maids said she thought it came from someone in the racing committee.

Lydia Flintoff-Jones confronted Mrs Pilchard, the wife of the head of the racing committee and said, “Jan, Jan, do you know who started this ridiculous rumour about Vivian Leigh?”

Jan said she did not like Lydia’s tone nor the implication. “Nothing implied,” Lydia Flintoff-Jones sneered and broke one of her high heels as she quickly spun away.

“Oi! Come over ‘ere,” the Club Treasurer said, who had caught one of the young maids in a passionate embrace in a sail locker, with the forward deck hand of Calypso, the fastest and most expensive yacht at the club. It was owned by Cornelius Tack, who made his money in carpets and bathroom fittings.

The maid was sent home and the deckhand was whisked away by mates to tell his side of the story.

Just as pandemonium was about to break out, with fingers pointing and voices raised, Swogger walked past with a dozen freshly cooked crayfish in a large wicker basket.

“Give me 20 pounds and you can have the lot of ‘em,” he said.

“Fuck Swogger, they don’t look half bad,” the Commodore said, weaving a little to starboard.

Half an hour later, everyone had full glasses and crayfish legs sticking out of their mouths. Someone put on a swing record and the young people danced.

Couples would meet on the dance floor and do a zany dance. That was ‘The Vivian Leigh’ they’d say. It became a joke. Older couples got in on the act. That’s ‘The Vivian Leigh’ they’d laugh and go back for more wine.

The Commodore’s wife, Lydia Flintoff-Jones, said I’ll show you a joke, as she perched one crayfish on top of the other. “That’s how Viv and Larry do it!” That got a great laugh.

And the party with gold buttons and hemlines flying, danced late in to the night.