The Fun Factory (10 page)

Wal Pink himself was a self-regarding braggart of an author and producer who confidently expected that
Repairs
was going to catapult him into the top rank alongside even the great Fred Karno, but the reviews were discouraging, the bookings dwindled, and the rats began to abandon the sinking ship. Charlie quickly left to join another outfit, called Casey’s Circus, and then it just so happened that the Guv’nor turned up to run his eye over the ailing Wal Pink routine. He liked the look of the heavily moustachioed lead actor and offered Syd a job.

Syd Chaplin’s rise within the Fun Factory organisation since had been little short of meteoric, as they say – except meteors, by their nature, are hurtling downwards, aren’t they? I’ve never quite understood that one – and within three months of joining Karno as a pantomimist, Syd was deemed ready to lead his own company, heading off to America as the drunk in
Mumming Birds
. Now he was back, and making a play to get the Guv’nor to take his kid brother on. Which was spoiled – inadvertently, as we have just seen – by me, your ’umble narrator. Oh well. How sad. Never mind.

“Now then, young feller,” Karno said when we were alone. “I’ll put you into
Jail Birds
– on trial, kind of style, understand? – an’ we’ll see whether you’ve got ‘it’ after all, shan’t we?”

For the rest of that week my feet barely touched the ground. The
Jail Birds
company I was to be joining was on tour in the North, but as it happened there was another company rehearsing
Jail Birds
down in London, so I was dispatched to learn the ropes with them first. I didn’t yet know all the ins and outs of Karno’s organisation, but I quickly gathered that a supporting player in a Karno sketch was like a cog in a machine. A beautifully tuned machine, with immaculate timing, but a machine nonetheless. You couldn’t get out of step with the other cogs, or the whole thing would grind to a halt. Also, the Guv’nor might need to remove a cog from one machine and transfer it to another at any moment, so there was no point in trying to build up, cut down or otherwise alter your part.

So it was up to Walworth Road to the Miracle first thing every morning to do a full day’s rehearsal, and then over to the Fun Factory to catch one of the Karno motor buses up to the Paragon to be a super in
Wontdetainia
.

I quickly got the hang of
Jail Birds
, which was a mostly physical routine without too much in the way of dialogue, set in a quarry where prisoners were breaking rocks and moving them about. There was an escape plan, which the guards thwart with a deal of tightly choreographed chasing around and bumping into things, and a bit of a free-for-all at the end, which was one of the Guv’nor’s principal trademarks.

It was hard work, though, and didn’t leave me any free time at all that week, which was to be my first and last as a passenger
aboard the
Wontdetainia
. Although I was excited about the chance I had been given, I wouldn’t have minded asking Tilly if she would like to repeat our afternoon tea together. As it was, though, the only real chance we had to speak at all the whole week was as we clung to one another on board the heaving mechanical ship.

Playing, you will recall, at being a married couple. Tilly was enjoying the game of playing her character to the full, and would whisper: “What do you think America will be like?” and “Will we still be able to get a nice cup of English tea?”

On one occasion she breathed: “How many children shall we have, do you think, darling?” into my ear, which affected my composure more than somewhat.

On the last night I couldn’t hold out any longer, and whispered the news in her ear, my dramatic step up from lowly super to probationary number five in a Karno touring company. It went down big, as they say in the States.

“No!” she suddenly cried out loud, grabbing my arm and gaping at me in disbelief. This would have been a very gratifying reaction, except that we were in the middle of the sketch at the time so it rather punctuated the action onstage, causing everyone – principals, supers and audience – to stare up at us. Tilly flushed and buried her face in my chest until the sketch picked up where it had left off. After a moment or two I could feel her shaking with mirth.

“How awful! I’ll be for it now!” she whispered. “How about
you
, though? You’re the next big thing!”

“I’ll only be on trial, you know.”

“Oh, pooh” she breathed. “Karno’s got his eye on you, that’s plain enough!”

Back at the Fun Factory, where all the various companies gathered at the end of the evening to collect their pay, Tilly abandoned her giggling chums and stood with me. She slipped her arm under mine, pulled me to her in a rather proprietorial fashion and beamed. I felt like the king of the world.

Then I noticed all the other supers looking squintways at me. They all seemed to be pretty much seething. Chaps who’d been warming up to me and generally giving me the time of day were now scowling in a surly fashion. A suspicion began to dawn.

“Tilly,” I whispered. “You didn’t tell anyone that I’m leaving, did you?”

“Oh, I may have mentioned it here and there,” she twinkled.

The rumour had spread like wildfire, leaping from dry stick to dry stick and consuming them all in the red heat of its jealous flames. I didn’t realise then, of course, that no super had ever been given a featured part in a Karno sketch. Ever. It had never happened before. Tilly stayed close by my side, basking in the glow she herself had created around me, smiling and waving at all the lesser mortals.

One of the fellows who’d been painting the ship alongside me, who’d been rather snooty that whole time, sidled over to offer his heartfelt congratulations.

“You will mention my name to Mr Karno, won’t you, if you get the chance?” he said, and I’m sure I would have done, as well, if he’d ever deigned to tell me what it was.

Freddie Karno junior arrived, as before, to set up his counting tables, and such was my new-found status that the mob parted deferentially to allow me and Tilly to go first. We strolled slowly
forward, rather like royalty, and the riff-raff bowed their heads and fell in line behind us.

Junior had his ledger open ready, and looked up to see me standing before him.

“Arthur Dandoe,” I said.

“I know,” Freddie said curtly, and I could tell right away he wasn’t all that pleased to see me. “I know who you are. Everybody knows who you are. You’re the super the Guv’nor’s sending up to take Ronny Marston’s place.”

I grinned modestly (I hoped) but said nothing, and we eyed one another.

“Do you know how long I’ve been on at my father to give me a go?” Freddie demanded. “Do you?”

I didn’t. And he didn’t tell me, but I imagined it was quite a while or he’d hardly be banging on about it.

“I thought when that whole Ronny Marston business happened, that was it, it was obvious. That would just be the perfect start for me. I as good as begged him, my own father, and he said he’d think about it, oh, he was still thinking about it, well maybe, or you never know, and then boom! Out of the blue, here’s
you
! I’ll tell you. I’m just about ready to pack this lot in! I am, straight!”

“I’ll mention your name if you like,” I offered, then bit my tongue.

His face hardened. “You do that,” he said, and slapped my money for the week into my hand, scratching my name out of his ledger with what I thought was unnecessary violence.

Alf Reeves was hovering nearby, having bustled over from the Enterprise. It turned out he was waiting for me, and he took my arm and led me outside for a private word.

“You mustn’t mind Freddie, you know, Arthur,” he said. “He’s not a bad fellow, when you get to know him. He’s as sorry as anyone about poor Ronny, even though it sounds like he’s only thinking of himself.”

There it was again – “
poor
Ronny”.

“Whatever was it that happened to…?” I began, but Reeves thumped me cheerily in the chest.

“So! It seems like the Guv’nor had plans for you after all, eh? Capital! Delighted!” He pumped my hand enthusiastically. “Now, it’s Bolton, isn’t it, yes, and it’s a half week, so most of them’ll be down tomorrow for a couple of days, loved ones and so on, so you can go back up with them on Tuesday. They’ve been using a sub since, well, you know, but he’s needed elsewhere, so you’ll be stepping straight in. Euston station, ten o’clock train. Look out for Frank O’Neill, he’s company managing. Good luck!”

With that he was off, with a hundred other things to take care of, no doubt, and while I was processing that information Tilly came out, skipped over to me and stood very close. I could smell her perfume, feel the weight of her as she leaned on my arm and pressed herself against me.

“Now then, Arthur Dandoe,” she said softly. “When you’re a big success, and can have any girl you want…” (now there was a distracting idea) “…you won’t forget me, will you?”

“Um … forget you? Forget
you
? I should say not.”

She smiled, a dazzling smile, and then suddenly pulled herself up on her tiptoes and kissed me quickly on the lips. Then off she went, skipping back inside to join her pals.

I should have gone back in, but I was embarrassed. I should have found her and asked if she would like to spend the following afternoon together, but I was afraid that if I went back in all
conversation would cease instantly and two hundred pairs of eyes and ears would track my every move. And nobody does their best courting under those conditions, do they?

So I made my way home, and lay awake all night thinking about that kiss.

11

JAIL BIRDS

THE
day before I headed off to start in
Jail Birds
I packed my carpet bag, then unpacked it and packed it again a couple of times. I was as nervous as a kitten in Battersea Dogs Home, and couldn’t settle. The part I had learned to do was straightforward enough, and I had it down pat, but I couldn’t stop thinking that I was only on trial, and wondering who was to be judge and jury.

A cup of tea, that’s what I needed, so I stuck my head through the scullery doorway, but there was no sign of Clara. I popped into the parlour, as she called the best front room, and there she was, her nose pressed up against the window, half hiding herself behind the curtain, fascinated by something happening in the street outside.

“C’m’ere, c’m’ere!” she hissed when she noticed I was there, and beckoned me to her side. “D’you see? There look!”

I peered out, immediately steaming up a patch of window pane, which I set about wiping with my sleeve. To my astonishment Clara slapped my arm down.

“Don’t do that. They’ll see you!”

Finding a clear bit of glass to spy through, I saw the woman from next door standing by her front gate. It seemed that she had had a visitor, who was just now making her farewells, a small but forceful lady, who had an expensive-looking brougham waiting at the roadside. The two of them embraced, the visitor raising a gloved hand to wipe away a tear from her friend’s cheek.

“D’you see who it is? Do you?” Clara whispered. “’Tis only Marie herself!”

“Who?”

“Marie Lloyd! You great … tuppenny bit!”

“Is it?” I gasped, and leaned forward to gawp pretty shamelessly at the legendary queen of the music hall. Clara, mortified with embarrassment now, tried to pull me back out of sight, but she was too late, and Marie Lloyd gave our house a cheery wave and a salute before stepping aboard her transport. Our neighbour watched her go, then turned and walked slowly back up her path, flashing a wan smile at our window. Clara turned away, shaking her head sadly.

“Poor woman,” she said. “Poor, poor thing.”

“But who is she?” I wanted to know. “And why is Marie Lloyd, of all people, coming to call on her?”

But Clara would only shake her head, before disappearing into the scullery, where after a moment I heard the sound of the kettle being filled, and her voice singing: “
Oh, Mr Porter, what shall I do
…?”

Funnily enough, the train to Birmingham that went on to Crewe – although Marie Lloyd wasn’t really singing about
trains
, was she? – was the very one I was catching the next morning.

I made my way up to Euston station and into the Great Hall, a mighty echoing chamber that dwarfed anything the good old college had to offer, with its sweeping, curving staircases and its ornate panelled ceiling. Like a cathedral, it was, I thought, dedicated to the worship of the steam engine.

A statue of George Stephenson stood on a plinth at the far end, and this was where I had arranged to meet my new colleagues as none of us would recognise one another on sight. It seemed that this landmark was a popular meeting place, and a short, fat fellow with a red nose was already leaning with his back to the monument, puffing away on a cigarette. He had a rather garish checked suit on and a bow tie, like a newspaper cartoon of a comedian.

“Excuse me, sir. Are you with Karno’s?”

A look of pop-eyed indignation appeared on the man’s face, and he flushed bright red.

“Am I with
Karno’s
?” he cried, taking a theatrical step back in amazement. “Do I
look
like I am with Karno’s, sir?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, you do.”

“Well, I am not, sir. As a matter of fact, I sell brushes” – and he tapped his suitcase with his toe end – “and I might add that I am very well respected in that trade, sir,
very
well respected. Now buzz orf!
Karno’s
indeed…!”

I buzzed a little way orf to one side as he chuntered away to himself and surveyed the throng of busy people passing through the station, or sitting on the bench seats lined up on either side of the concourse. Where did it come from, I wondered, that brush salesman’s disdain for the very idea that he might have been a comic? Did he not realise that being a comic was a far superior way to spend one’s life?

“No, I am
not
this Arthur Whoosis!” the cartoon comedian was loudly insisting. “I sell brushes. Now buzz orf!”

Another hapless fellow was backing away apologetically, and I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Are you looking for Arthur Dandoe?”

“Ah! That’s you, is it? Excellent. Right, follow me…” I followed him as he hustled through a ticket barrier, waving a pair of tickets high above his head, then along a platform and up onto a train, where he ushered me into a compartment. Three others were already waiting inside: two young chaps who looked more than a little cowed, and a tall fellow with slicked-down hair sitting with his arms and legs crossed, an air of barely suppressed fury about him.

“Here he is, Syd, I found him,” my companion said breathlessly.

“Finally!”

“Yes. Well…” The fellow who’d fetched me smiled at each of us in turn, as if trying to inject a bit of sunshine into the compartment. “Now, let me see. I didn’t even introduce myself, did I? I’m Frank O’Neill, company manager. This is Mr Sydney Chaplin, our principal comic…”

The principal comic’s eyes narrowed.

“… And these bright sparks are Mike Asher and Albert Austin,” O’Neill continued. “Gentlemen, this is Arthur Dandoe.”

“We’ve met,” Syd Chaplin muttered, and then began grinding his teeth, so no one was in any doubt that he was displeased to see me.

“I’m sorry we weren’t all waiting for you as arranged,” Frank continued, with the kind of forced breeziness a manager will sometimes employ to try and mitigate a star performer’s sullenness. “Only Syd doesn’t like to hang about in public places. He gets recognised, you see, and people start making a fuss.”

Syd Chaplin grunted scornfully. There was a sharp whistle from outside and the train began to ease its way out of the station.

As we glided out through the suburbs, no one speaking, I realised that our leader had been regarding me appraisingly for an uncomfortably long while.

“So you’re the Guv’nor’s new blue-eyed boy, then, are you?” he said, once he was sure he had unsettled me completely.

“Oh, I don’t know so much about that,” I said, trying to sound cheery.

“Oh yes, everyone’s talking about
you
, aren’t they?” He looked to Mike and Albert for confirmation, and they nodded dutifully. “Look at these two,” he laughed. “They’re just eaten up with curiosity about you!”

Mike and Albert both flushed and stared at the floor.

“Now then,” Syd continued. “It’s my understanding that you’re with us on trial. Well, you’re not the first, not by a long chalk, and I dare say you won’t be the last neither. Lot of ’em don’t last too long, do they, Frank, the Guv’nor’s little fancies? They can’t stand the spotlight, the expectation, they drop by the wayside, and he moves on to someone else as if they’d never existed.”

Frank O’Neill gave me a wan little smile, and Syd sat back, folding his arms smugly.

“So the Guv’nor saw you in a show, I suppose, did he?” Syd mused. “What company would that have been for, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Um, the Footlights Club in Cambridge.”

“Oh-ho, college boy, is it?”

“No, no, well, that’s to say, I used to work in a…”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got nothing against college boys as long as
they pull their weight. Davy Burnaby, he was in that Footlights Club, wasn’t he, Frank?”

“Mr Concert Party,” agreed Frank, enigmatically.

“And he does all right for himself on the halls. He’ll never be exactly in the top rank, you know, but he’ll not starve neither.”

Frank nodded, and with that, our leader began to gaze out of the window and the conversation dried up completely.

I felt about as welcome as a turd in a tin bath.

Over lunch in the restaurant car – the first time I’d ever had a meal on a train, I had beef, I remember – Syd held court again.

“So you weren’t a student, you say? What were you then?”

“I was a college servant,” I said.

“Good, solid, reliable position. You’ve got something to go back to, then, when – I mean,
if
– you decide to pack all this in. Isn’t that right, lads?”

Mike and Albert nodded eagerly.

“Is that what happened to Ronny Marston?” I said.

There was a loud clang as Mike dropped his fork onto his bone china plate.

“I mean to say, did
he
just decide to pack it all in?” I asked. “Ronny Marston?”

Under the table, somebody kicked me sharply on the shin. I looked to Syd for an answer to my question, but the safety curtain had come down once again and the meal concluded in puzzling silence. Was the guilty flush on his cheek merely because he felt the responsibility of his position as company leader, I wondered, or was there something more?

When Syd got to his feet and led the way back to our compartment, Mike Asher surreptitiously grabbed my arm and held me back. He watched until the other three were well out of earshot, then he hissed: “Don’t you know better than to talk about Ronny bloody Marston?”

“
Poor
Ronny Marston, you mean. Why?”

“Why, he says! After what happened to him!”

“I don’t know what happened to him. Nobody seems to want to tell me anything about it.”

Mike gaped at me. “You really don’t know?”

“For God’s sake, man,
tell
me!”

After a moment he leaned forward over the table, confidentially. “Well, you know the expression ‘breakneck speed’? That’s what the reviews say about us, usually. ‘The action takes place at breakneck speed –
Brighton Argus
.’ So forth. Well, one night Ronny ran on at breakneck speed, slipped, fell off the stage, landed on his stupid head, broke his stupid neck.”

“No! Did he…? I mean,
is
he…?”

“No, no, he’s alive, but they don’t know if he’ll walk again, the poor chump.”