The Fun Factory (16 page)

At the end of the week Syd took me to one side in the pub after the last show.

“Ardwick Empire next week,” he said.

“Right you are, skipper,” I replied jauntily, anxious to get back to Tilly and my pint.

“I’m making a change there,” Syd went on, catching me by the arm. “You’ll be playing the Naughty Boy from now on, and Charlie’s taking the Magician. Got it?”

“Um … yes, I see,” I said. “Any particular reason?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Syd muttered. “Just do as you’re told.”

So from then on I was the Naughty Boy, and to be honest more than a little cheesed off about it. Still, I quickly worked out that my new role gave me the opportunity to throw oranges at Charlie’s top hat, and I became so proficient at this that the next time Syd took me to one side it was to tell me to pack it in. I put it down to all the Students v Staff cricket matches I’d played back at the college.

However I felt about what was happening in the theatre, there was always the prospect of a beer or two afterwards, followed
by the moonlit stroll, arm in arm with my pretend wife, back to married digs and the fraudulent conjugal pleasures we shared together. I don’t have to paint you a picture, do I? I mean, I could do, but there’s no way they’d let me include it in the book, so you’ll just have to imagine.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: here we go. Two young people with bright and promising futures, she gets in the family way, and then it’s all downhill from there. Misery, struggle, money trouble, before you know it more brats littering the place up, she drags him down, he resents her, she resents him for resenting her, and for ruining her looks and her chances of bettering herself…

We’ve all read that one, haven’t we? Well, Tilly had read it too.

“I’ve seen too many girls fall for a baby,” she said once. “And then you bump into them two years later and they look twenty years older. Grey hairs they haven’t time to pluck out, and great red faces from boiling and boiling goodness knows what!”

Which is why, whenever we settled into a new town for a week on that tour, I would be dispatched to seek out the old red and white striped pole, trying to find “something for the weekend”. I never quite mastered the art of going into a barber’s shop and just acquiring the “something for the weekend” without the haircut. For some reason – probably just sound commercial good sense, actually, now I think about it – those particular items never seemed to be on sale until after the trim was completed. Sometimes I’d have to have a shave as well, before the old geezer in charge would admit to having any at all.

Mrs Rennocks, the landlady Tilly and I stayed with in Ardwick, cooed over the two of us newlyweds to such an extent we were hard put not to burst out laughing. Tilly filled in much of
the detail of our make-believe wedding day in her parlour, I seem to recall. Anyway, Mrs Rennocks was adamant that she would only allow married couples to stay in her rooms, because once you let to single men, especially theatricals, they “got up to all sorts”. We had to go out for a walk shortly after that, we were giggling so much, and ever after that “getting up to all sorts” was what we called it, and all sorts was what we got up to in her house for the whole of that week.

Charlie, meanwhile, was quite a hit as the Magician, and I remarked on this to Tilly in the pub after the show one night.

“Well, you would think that, wouldn’t you?” she said, rather to my surprise.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“It doesn’t take a genius to see it,” she said. “He’s just copied exactly what you were doing, all your new bits, even down to that eyebrow thing of yours. I mean, he’s funny enough, of course, but they’re your laughs, really, when you think about it.”

She was right, as well. He was a great mimic, Charlie, no doubt about it, and imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, they say, don’t they? Well, I wasn’t the first person to be ‘flattered’ by Charlie, and I certainly wasn’t the last. Once Tilly pointed it out it really began to niggle with me, though, and the next night I picked out a couple of larger oranges.

I should have known it would take more than a couple of oranges to make a dent in Charlie Chaplin’s progress.

16

THE KARNO OF THE NORTH

“DON’T
you know who we
are
?”

We arrived at the band call on Monday morning at the Middlesbrough Empire to find Syd in a terrible snit, rampaging around the stage gesticulating angrily at the theatre manager, a hapless individual named Blezzard, who was trying to placate him. I sidled up to George Craig, who was standing by the prompt desk watching these shenanigans with a face like thunder.

“What’s up, George?” I whispered.

“Here,” he hissed back, angrily thrusting a piece of paper into my hand as though it would be explanation enough. It was the publicity poster for the week’s run, and I spotted right away that
Mumming Birds
was right down at the bottom of the bill, down among the wine and spirits, in other words taking second billing. It was quite a shock – it must have been years since a Karno company had been obliged to play second fiddle to anyone on any music hall stage anywhere.

I glanced at the top of the bill, and was mystified. If it had been a top-rank artiste, or some foreign turn with a global following and an ego to match, then maybe I might have understood, but it was actually another large company sketch, which would undoubtedly have its own substantial set and cumbersome cast cluttering up the place. The Arthur Jefferson Company, they were called, in something called
Home from the Honeymoon,
8
and this Jefferson was not shy of styling himself ‘The Karno of the North’.

Syd broke away, exasperated, from the theatre manager – who crumpled into a chair, gasping for breath – and stormed over to the assembled Karno troupers.

“If it were not bad enough to be billed second, we are expected to go on before the interval!” he fumed. “I’ve complained till I’m blue in the face, but the fellow insists that the second half is promised to this other mob and he won’t shift an inch.”

“We’re not going to stand for that, are we?” said Jimmy Russell, hands on hips.

“Well, what
else
can we do?” Syd exclaimed. There was a pause while heads were scratched, and then I suddenly burst out: “Withdraw!”

“What?” said Syd. “The Guv’nor would have my guts for garters!”

“Pull out!” I insisted, and Tilly squeezed my arm encouragingly. “Show we’re not to be messed about. He’ll back down, and if he doesn’t … well … we’ll set up somewhere else!”

I was talking off the top of my head, but Jimmy Russell took over my half-baked idea.

“Yes!” he cried. “There’s a huge church hall just around the corner, that big dark red building. We set up in there. It could
be done, Syd, you know it could. We’ll wipe the floor with this mob, what do you say?”

There was a cheer from the rest of the company, apart from Syd, who looked as though the cares of the world had landed on his shoulders, and George, who was shaking his head, the big wet blanket.

“Come on, George!” Jimmy said. “How about it?”

“Lights?” George said, discouragingly.

“Borrow ’em!”

“Stagehands?”

“Bribe ’em!”

“Audience?”

“Go out and grab ’em!”

George was still shaking his fat head, looking terrified, and Tilly suddenly shouted: “Let’s have a vote! Who’s for pulling out?!”

Most hands shot up in the air right away. Everyone’s, in fact, apart from George’s, Syd’s and Charlie’s.

“This isn’t a democracy, you know, chaps,” Syd said, frowning. “It’s all on me if it goes to hell.”

“Which would you rather have to do?” I said. “Tell the Guv’nor that we rolled over for that chump? Or tell him that we wouldn’t stand for it?”

Syd looked at Charlie, who shrugged. He looked at George, who mopped his brow with a big handkerchief. He looked at the rest of us, all raring to go. All of a sudden he smacked his fist into the palm of his hand.

“Let’s do it,” he said.

What a day that was. We got the set loaded back onto the carts, with our faces set firm against Blezzard, the theatre manager, who
grabbed us by the sleeves begging us to turn round. Jimmy Russell managed to secure the use of the big church hall that he had seen for the week. It was promised to a temperance society for improving talks, but Jimmy managed to charm them round. Bert Darnley was dispatched to a theatre in Darlington which happened to be dark for that week, and returned with a cartload of lights and a small crew of eager stage workers.

And once it was all set up, early afternoon time, we all dispersed to the four corners of the town to spread the word. Actually, it was surprisingly easy to start the ball rolling. Tilly and I worked it together, and I’m sure the other members of the company had a similar approach. We would go into a pub, and over a drink or two we’d get chatting to the customers and mention the exciting news that the Karno company had pulled out of the local theatre and were setting up a rival show in a church hall. It didn’t take long for the word to pass around the pub, then we would move on. By the end of the afternoon we were no longer bothering with the drink or two first. We would just poke our heads in through the doorway and shout the news, letting matters take their own course.

When the time came to return we made our way past the Empire, and saw the queue waiting to be let in for the evening’s performance.

“Look at that,” Tilly said. “He’s not made any attempt to tell them that the Karno company is not appearing tonight. That’s taking their money under false pretences, that is.”

“We should tell them,” I said. “It’s only fair.”

We intended to whisper the information here and there as we passed along the line, but in the event we only had to tell the people at the front of the queue and the news travelled faster than we could walk. It was like lighting the fuse on a firework, and as we watched the queue disintegrated before our eyes, with
the Empire’s audience running, scurrying, hustling away round the corner to the church hall of St John the Evangelist.

Hundreds were waiting there, the queue snaking away to the corner and away out of sight. George Craig was taking money hand over fist, and the big red hall was already crammed to the rafters. Tilly and I burst out laughing when we saw it, and we ran hand in hand to get ready.

The show that evening had a rather curious beginning. Jimmy Russell had secured the use of the hall by promising to share it with the temperance society, but the audience sat dutifully through a harangue about the demon drink from the excitable Mrs Muriel Staveley, and then were rewarded by a Karno company at the top of its game. First some party pieces from the likes of Johnny Doyle and Bert Darnley, and then the mighty
Mumming Birds
, which was rapturously received.

Afterwards we rubbed salt into the wounds by gathering to celebrate in the pub next door to the Empire, which we were pleased to discover had been less than half full.

Syd was holding court, flushed with success, at one end of a long table, with the other senior members of the company – Johnny Doyle, Jimmy Russell, George and Lillie Craig – in attendance. To listen to him and Charlie, you’d think it had all been Syd’s idea. They were debating whether to send a wire now to Karno about the whole affair, or whether to wait and see how the rest of the week played out. I sat at the other end with Bert, Chas and Tilly for company.

On the opposite side of the room we could see the Jefferson party, similarly installed, like a mirror of ours, but mired in gloom. Their senior performers at one end, their junior fellows at the other, and then off by himself a slim figure of maybe eighteen years old, with springy red hair and a gormless smile
stuck to his chops. No one seemed to be talking to him, and after a while he picked up his glass of beer and wandered over in our direction.

“Hullo,” this ginger stripling said, a big ingenuous grin on his face as though he were incapable of imagining why anyone wouldn’t like him. “I’m Stan.”

“All right, Stan,” I said, choosing to play the benevolent victor. “Join us.”

This Stan plonked himself on the spare chair at our table, and raised his glass as if to say “Cheers!” as we introduced ourselves.

“So, not celebrating with your mates tonight?” I asked, nodding over towards the Jefferson company table.

Stan had just brought his pint to his lips, and snorted the froth off the top in surprise. “Celebrating?” he said. “After that stunt you lot pulled?”

Bert, Chas, Tilly and I smirked and clinked our glasses together. Stan leaned in close.

“They’re all crapping themselves that word’s going to get back to the Guv’nor and they’ll all be out on the streets, so nobody wants to talk to
me
.”

“Why’s that?” Tilly said.

“Well, you see, he’s my Dad,” Stan said. “I’m Stan Jefferson.”

“So if your Dad’s ‘The Karno of the North’, then you’re the Freddie junior of the North,” I said. Stan grinned blankly at this.

“Difference is, Stan’s old man’s given him a go,” Bert said. “Actually, Dad was dead against me going on the stage,” Stan said. “He wanted me to go into the management side of things. Arthur Jefferson
and Son
, you know? Then one night I borrowed some of his clothes and did a turn at a place called Pickard’s
Museum, do you know it? In Glasgow?”

I did know it, of course, and an unpleasant memory of Wal Pink’s smooth, well-fed features flashed before my eyes. I blinked it away.

“So I walked out onto the stage in my borrowed trousers and my borrowed hat, and I did my borrowed
lines
, and it wasn’t the greatest act in the world but it was the greatest feeling I ever had in my life. I saw Pickard standing at the back, watching me, and there, standing next to him … was Dad!”

“Crumbs!” said Tilly.

“He saw that I was a lost cause, I suppose, and now he uses me as a sort of comedy sticking plaster when something goes wrong with one of his shows.” He glanced over his shoulder at the
Home from the Honeymoon
team, some of whom seemed to be giving him the evil eye and muttering darkly.

Bert and Chas made their excuses and slipped away, probably to another pub where there were girls, if I know them. Stan turned to me with another big grin.

“What about you, then?” he said. “How did you get started?”

“Well, you’ll hardly believe this,” I said, “but the fact is I borrowed my dad’s clothes to do an act, and he caught me at it.”

“No!” Stan guffawed. “How about that!”

And when you’re eighteen, nineteen years old, that’s all you really need to strike up a firm friendship with someone, isn’t it? That you should have one thing in common?

Stan turned to Tilly. “And how about you, Mrs Dandoe?”

“Oh, like most people, really,” she replied nonchalantly. “My family are in the business, so it was in my blood. My father has his own theatre, and my mother is a seamstress, she makes all the costumes for the shows.”

This was news to me and I was intrigued. “So you first appeared at your father’s theatre, then?”

She laughed at that. “I suppose I did!” she chuckled, and then she stuck her hand up and waggled her fingers at me.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, but apparently it was a private joke between Tilly and herself.

Just then Charlie strolled over, clutching his little glass of port and a cigarette, and stood over us, a disapproving expression on his face.

“You’re giving away company secrets, Dandoe, is that it? To this spy from the opposition?”

“Oh, come on, don’t be so bloody po-faced!” I said, slapping Charlie hard on the back. “Anyway, I’m the one who’s getting information. Did you know that Mr Jefferson gets his people to call him ‘The Guv’nor’?”

“Well, perhaps he shouldn’t after tonight’s little embarrassment,” Charlie snorted, then he stuck his nose in the air and went back to the top table to consider weightier matters.

Tilly, Stan and me, we rolled about. If you could have seen Charlie’s pompous little face with its pointless little sneer, and if you’d had a good night onstage followed by a few ales, then maybe you’d have been holding your aching sides, too.