The Fun Factory (19 page)

You wouldn't have wanted to spend much time with Charlie for the next few days, weeks even. He sank into a black depression, and it was all we could do to get a grunt of greeting from him for many a moon. Syd was dreadfully worried. Charlie only became animated onstage. He'd reverted to the Naughty Boy role after his single night in the lead, and to look at him during the act you'd think he was his old self, but once the curtain went down the oranges or buns or whatever missiles it was he was flinging about would drop from his nerveless fingers, and he'd slope off to his hotel room to wallow in more misery.

He was laying it on a bit thick, we all agreed. We'd all seen Karno cut him down to size on the night of his visit, and we all thought it was mightily unfair, to be sure. Unlike hapless old George Craig, the Guv'nor had seen clean through the subterfuge of Syd's illness. He knew Syd would certainly have painted his face green if he'd thought it would advance Charlie's career. The Guv'nor, quite simply, didn't like being led by the nose, and he decided to stamp his immaculately shod foot down.

I had troubles of my own. Every town we went to seemed grimmer and greyer than the one before it, and I could not wait for the tour to be over so we could get back to London and I could try and patch things up with Tilly.

Has anybody here seen Tilly? T-I-double L-Y…?

I wrote letters to her, of course, but the trouble was I really hadn't a clue where to send them. It hadn't occurred to us that we would need to know addresses when we were spending all our time together on the tour, but when she left without saying goodbye I realised I had no idea how to get in touch with her to apologise or explain.

Then one evening I was sitting in a corner of the dressing
room, writing another plea for forgiveness, when Amy Minister popped her head round the door.

“Writing to Tilly?” she asked brightly. “I've just been doing that.”

“Really?” I said. Then a thunderbolt of a notion struck me. “I'll … post it for you, if you like.”

“Ho ho!” Amy laughed. “You just want to see what I've written about you.”

“I don't … I mean, I don't want to read it,” I said, although actually I wouldn't have minded a quick peek. “I was just going to slip out and post this in a minute, and I'll take yours too if you'd like.”

Amy saw the sense in that, and skipped off to fetch her letter to Tilly. A few moments later it was in my hand, and yes! Glory be! There was an address on the envelope! Which must be her lodgings, near to Finsbury Park, in London. I committed it to memory, as well as to my own envelope, and spent the next day or two with a lighter heart, waiting for the reply.

Nothing had come, though, by the end of the week, and there was nothing the next week at Burnley either. I told myself that she would maybe have sent a reply to Clara and Charley Bell's house in Streatham, in case the post missed me at the theatres. She could have sent a wire, though. Maybe I should send a wire?

Finally, after a spectacularly miserable week at the Argyle in Birkenhead, we were done, and the whole company headed South on the train to the capital at last.

I found myself sitting opposite Charlie for the journey. He was still making a meal of his Great Disappointment, unshaven, no collar to his shirt, staring out of the window at the rain, lost in his own little world. It suited me, as I was not in the mood
for conversation either. After we'd been rattling along for a little while, however, I suddenly realised that Charlie was looking at me.

“You'll be looking forward to seeing that girl of yours, I expect,” he said.

I smiled wanly. I was indeed thinking about seeing her, but had no idea whether she would want to see me.

“It was unforgiveable, don't you think? You must think so.”

“Yes,” I said, Syd's face uttering the phrase “moral turpitude” springing immediately to mind.

“Karno's behaviour, that night in Warrington. To humiliate me so, in front of everyone.”

“Well,” I said. “Perhaps you pushed your luck, a bit, you and Syd.”

“It was devastating, what he said, though, devastating.”

“Oh, I don't know,” I said. “He said I was the best Magician he'd seen in five years of watching the act.”

Charlie snorted. “Oh, well, obviously he was only saying that to get at me, wasn't he?”

“Oh, is that so?” I bristled.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Charlie waved a hand dismissively. “He knew that would be the surest way to drive the dagger home.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he's set us against one another, hasn't he? Cooked up this, this ridiculous … rivalry. Why, if it wasn't for that, of course, I would never have…”

He caught himself short, and turned to look out of the window again. I was puzzled, naturally, and after a moment I pressed him.

“Would never have what?”

“Nothing. Nothing…”

“Listen, Charlie, the Guv'nor is no fool. He knows what he saw that night, and he'll give you your chance, you wait and see.”

“Well, maybe I don't want to wait for him to give me my chance. You know, Arthur, I've been giving serious consideration to leaving Karno's altogether.”

I goggled at this. “You'd leave? To do what?”

“I could work,” Charlie pouted. “I always found work before, and in any case, I've been considering a single act.”

No wonder he'd been depressed. I remembered the solo turn he'd done at Forester's.

“You'd be a damned fool,” I said vehemently. “Where are you going to find the chances you get with the Guv'nor? The scenes, the settings, the scale, and always top of the bill? I know he's capricious, and you mustn't get on the wrong side of him, but he's an absolute genius, no one to match him.”

Charlie grunted. “Yes, well, anyway, I didn't say I was going to do it, just that I've been considering it. I've been thinking about things a lot.”

No kidding, I thought. Charlie smiled and sat back in his seat, and a serenity settled on him that seemed to wash away the self-doubt and torment of the past few weeks. At that moment the sun came out from behind a cloud, as if in perfect synchronisation with his mood. Say what you like about Charlie, he had timing.

“And do you know what I realised, Arthur? Do you? I
should
stay, you're right. I should stay, bide my time, work my way up, as long as it takes. One day I'm going to have that little bastard over a barrel, and I'm going to make him grovel.”

19

BESIDE THE SEASIDE

AS
I made my way back to Streatham I couldn’t help feeling a little flutter of anticipation. Little Edie Bell, still clutching Miss Churchhouse to her chest, was pleased to see me in one piece. She’d picked up enough snippets of conversation about the unfortunate Ronny Marston to imagine that I was doing dangerous work from which I might not return.

When I got a little time to myself think, I realised I had set a lot of store by there being a letter from Tilly. But there was nothing. Now I had to put my mind to what to do next. A little carefully reasoned detective work was called for, I thought, in the style of Mr Sherlock Holmes of
The Strand
magazine, so on my next free morning I smartened myself up and took the tram from Streatham to the West End, walking the last stretch up to Finsbury Park to save myself a few pennies.

I found Tilly’s address easily enough, a terraced house in a residential street, but I didn’t knock right away. I needed to walk up and down the street for a while, preparing what I was going to say and taking deep breaths.

Has anybody here seen Tilly? T-I-double L-Y…?

When my knock on the door was finally answered it was by a careworn landlady, hair hidden by a knotted scarf, traces of flour on her apron, who crossed her arms at the sight of me in my Sunday best, pursed her lips, and then said: “Which one of ’em have you come for, then?”

“Good morning,” I said. “I wonder if I might speak with Miss Beckett?”

“Remind me,” she frowned.

“Um … around this height…” – I showed with my hand – “… fair hair, blue eyes…”

“First name of?”

“Tilly. That is, Matilda.”

“No,” the landlady shook her head firmly. “No Tillies or Matildas currently. I’ve got an Annie, a Louisa, a Mary who calls herself Marie, and two Elsies. Dancers, the lot of ’em. So they
says
, anyway.”

She started to close the front door, and I quickly interjected. “Please!” She paused. Raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

“She was staying here, a little while ago, I’m sure. Can you remember if she said where she was going or what she was going to do?”

“Wait a minute…” I could almost see the cogs whirring round. “Beckett, you say? Matilda Beckett, now that do ring a bell. Going to see her, are you?”

“I hope so,” I said.

“Wait here,” she said, and disappeared into the back of the house. I allowed myself to hope she was fetching a forwarding address, but no, when she returned she thrust some letters into my hand and said: “Give her these when you see her, there’s a good lad.”

The door shut. I looked at the letters. Two from Amy Minister and three from me.

Now I was out of ideas. I had a little time to kill, so I wandered down to the Corner to see if I could find Tilly amongst the lingering unemployed, but no joy. Mr Holmes would doubtless have had some bright notion at this point, but I had nothing.

On the Saturday I found myself, as usual when in London, in the Enterprise for pay night, looking hopefully out of the window at the milling crowd of supers over at the Fun Factory. So Tilly had left her lodgings, but that didn’t necessarily mean she hadn’t found work in the Karno organisation somewhere. It would have been a step down to go back to super work, no doubt, but it was a possibility, surely?

Suddenly there were raised voices and the most terrible commotion from over by the Guv’nor’s corner. A familiar portly figure pushed his way through the crowd, pop-eyed and red in the face. He banged the outside door open furiously with the heel of his hand and disappeared into the night.

George Craig.

“What happened?” I whispered to Bert Darnley.

“Sacked!” Bert hissed. “That business up in Middlesbrough, remember? When that Jefferson mob pinched our top billing? The Guv’nor said he should never have stood for it, should have got them to back down.”

I glanced around, and caught sight of Lillie Craig, George’s wife. She was as stunned as everyone else by this development, and let out a melodramatic wail: “Ge-o-o-o-orge…?”

Maybe it was this exhibition of the Guv’nor’s ruthlessness, or this indication that nothing that occurred within his empire escaped his notice, but when it was my turn to collect my pay I
felt a sudden overwhelming urge to demonstrate my own loyalty. I didn’t know whether he knew about me and Tilly, but the thought that he might was making my heart race, so when he handed me my packet I found myself blurting out: “In Glasgow I was approached by Wal Pink, Guv’nor.”

Karno looked piercingly up at me from behind his fold-up table. “Was you now?”

“He means to bring you down,” I said.

Karno nodded slowly. “Thank you for telling me, Arthur,” he said. “But don’t fret. The matter is in hand.”

I left him then, and went back to my pint of ale with the blood pounding in my temples. I didn’t think I had surprised him at all, and so it was clearly the right thing to have done. I might even have done myself a good turn. And if the Guv’nor knew about his rival’s plans, then I didn’t give much for their chances of success.

I glanced over at the Fun Factory. Freddie junior would be there, of course, with the ledger and his fold-out desk, and it crossed my mind to see what he knew of Tilly, if anything. Not there, though, and not at that moment. I was still shaking…

The opportunity presented itself by and by. I contrived to bump into Freddie in Streatham as he arrived at the house next door.

“What ho, Arthur!” said Freddie. He was really desperate to be one of us, poor fellow.

“Freddie,” I said. “I’m glad to have a chance to speak to you. There’s something I need to clear up. You remember Tilly?”

“Your wife, of course. She was pleased to be sent to your company, I expect?”

“Yes, she was…”

“Bit of a sudden promotion from the ranks for her, to be sure, but I dare say she coped well enough, eh? How is she?”

“She’s well, as far as I know,” I said. “The thing is, you see…”

And I explained how the misunderstanding had played out, right up to the dressing down I got from Syd, where he accused me of moral turpitude. Freddie laughed fit to bust.

“Moral turpitude? Did he say that?!”

“He did,” I assured him, “and he said the Guv’nor would take a very dim view of it.”

“Oh well, ahem, I’m sure he would,” Freddie smirked, affecting seriousness, and not especially well. “The old Guv’nor knows all about moral turpitude, of course.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, he’s a great authority on moral turpitude. He himself is quite turpitudinous, don’t you know. In point of fact, the old man…” Freddie went on, tears springing from his eyes, “often shows exemplary turpitudinousness!”

“My, my! Whatever is so funny?” a voice said, and I saw that my next-door neighbour was standing in her front doorway, watching us making fools of ourselves.

“Mama, there you are!” Freddie cried. “You remember Arthur? Invite him in for tea and we’ll tell you all about it.”

And so I found myself ensconced in the next-door parlour with Freddie, while our hostess disappeared below stairs to set a scullery maid to making tea. I leaned over and half-whispered, not wishing to be indelicate: “So, Freddie. Do I take it then that my neighbour … is your mother?”

“Yes, hadn’t you cottoned onto that? Yes, indeed, she is Mrs Karno.”

“But I met Mrs Karno, at your father’s house. At
your
house.”

“Oh, you met Maria, of course. She’s not really a Mrs Karno. They say she is, and all that, but they’re not actually married. Mama is Mrs Karno all right. First and only. The old feller is desperate to divorce, but she’s not having any of it. Still loves him, you see, despite everything.”

“Despite what? What do you mean?”

“Oh …
ahem
…” Freddie coughed, exactly like his father. “Never mind about that now.”

Freddie’s mother joined us then, and eagerly pressed me for news of my adventures working for her husband. I told her a little about the
Mumming Birds
tour, and about the Guv’nor’s visit to Warrington to check up on Charlie and me. She hung on my every word, storing up every titbit, particularly about the Guv’nor himself – how did he
look
, what did he
say
, what did he
wear
?

“He’s not told you yet about the thwarting of love’s young dream, though, has he?” Freddie cut in. I shook my head to warn him not to lead the conversation there, but he ploughed on. “It’s all right, Mama won’t tell anyone, will you, old thing? And she might get a thrill out of it, eh?”

So I found myself recounting again the circumstances leading to my travelling as man and wife with Tilly, and sure enough, Mrs Karno was fascinated.

“She left without a word the next morning, and I have not been able to find any sign of her since,” I finished. Freddie looked thoughtful.

“Well, I haven’t seen her at the Factory lately. If she’s working for the Guv’nor she’ll be on the books, though, somewhere. I’ll take a squint for you and let you know. How’s that?”

Freddie was as good as his word, and sought me out at the Enterprise on Saturday night.

“Sorry, old man,” he said, clamping his hand to my shoulder sympathetically. “She ain’t on the strength, not since she was paid off for the
Mumming Birds
. Left no word, either, what she was moving on to. Don’t know what to suggest, I’m afraid.”

I thanked him and went to sit alone with my pint for a think. There was still one loose thread nagging away in my mind. Essex… Surely Tilly had said that her father owned a theatre in Southend-on-Sea? If that was where her family home was to be found, maybe a little further sleuthing would uncover a useful lead, even the girl herself.

So the very next time I had a day off – which was a little time coming, as the Fun Factory was more factory than fun just then – I took myself up to Fenchurch Street station and caught a London, Tilbury and Southend service to the coast, Mr Holmes pursuing
The Case of the Missing Show Girl.

The town’s theatre – the New Empire, it was called, probably still is – sat on a busy road off the main street, flanked by rows of shops, haberdasheries and the like. It boasted an impressive façade that towered above the surrounding buildings.

Since I was searching for information, I judged my best bet might be to speak to the stage door chap, maybe stand him a pint, but the stage door was locked and barred. I was stuck, then, with the front of house, and the bored-looking girl in the box office.

“Good day,” I began, tipping my hat. “Could I speak to Mr Beckett?”

“I don’t know a Mr Beckett,” she replied. This flummoxed me momentarily, having not thought through my interrogation beyond this point, and she went on: “We have stalls or gallery for this evening, if you would like to make a purchase.”

I saw I would need to push a little harder. The New Empire maybe wasn’t a theatre that the Karno company frequented, but his name was a thing to be reckoned with nonetheless.

“I work for Mr Fred Karno in London,” I said. “He asked me to speak to Mr Beckett on a matter of some urgency.”

The girl’s demeanour changed at once.