who sat in the stalls surrounded by rows and rows of empty seats, some of them still covered by dust sheets and bits of rubble from the bomb damage.
A pale girl in ballet shoes sat four rows behind them clutching a black bag on her lap. Beside her, silent and pensive-looking, the old comedian.
‘Right now. Shall we crack on then?’ A disembodied voice from the stalls. ‘We’ve got a lot to cover today. The old man, Willie, you first. Come on!’
A stenographer with a clipboard sat down quietly beside the three men. The music struck up, whistles and trumpets and silly trombones. A few seconds later, old Willie ran out, fleet-footed in his patent-leather pumps, shouting, ‘Well here we are then!’
Arleta clutched Saba’s hand, digging her nails into the palm. ‘He needs this so badly,’ she whispered in the dark. ‘His wife died a few months ago. Married thirty-four years. Heartbroken.’
Willie went down arthritically on one knee and sang ‘Old Man River’ with silly wobbling lips. The silence from the auditorium was deafening – no laughter from the watching men, no applause. For his next trick he deadpanned what Arleta whispered was his speciality: a hopelessly garbled version of a nursery rhyme called ‘Little Red Hoodingride and the Forty Thieves’.
Saba joined in with Arleta’s rich laughter; Willie was really funny.
After his next joke, about utility knickers – ‘One Yank and they’re off’ – a shadowy figure stood up behind the orchestra pit and said:
‘Mr Wise, I take it you understand our blue-joke policy?’
‘Sorry?’ The old man walked towards the spotlight and stood there blinking nervously.
‘If you get chosen, all scripts must be submitted to us for a signature. We’re clear about the standards we want to live up to; we hope you are too.’
‘All present and correct, sir.’ Willie stood in a blue haze, smiling glassily. ‘Appreciate the warning.’ He clicked his heels and saluted, and it was hard to tell in that unstable light whether he was mocking or simply scared.
The pale girl rose. She had long limbs, very thin eyebrows and beautiful hands. She wafted towards the main spotlight and stood there smiling tensely.
‘Janine De Vere. I’m from Sadler’s Wells, you might remember.’ The posh voice bore faint traces of Manchester.
‘What have you got for us, Miss De Vere?’ from the dark.
‘My wide-ranging repertoire includes tap and Greek dancing. Ah’m very versatile.’
‘Oh get you,’ murmured Arleta.
‘Well perhaps a small sample. We don’t have long.’
Miss De Vere cleared her throat and faced the wings. She held a beseeching hand towards a woman in an army uniform and sensible shoes who put the needle down on the gramophone. Syrupy music rose and sobbed. Miss De Vere took a tweed coat off and in a sea-green tutu sprang into action with a series of leaps across the stage. With her long pale arms moving like seaweed as she twirled and jumped and with light patting sounds, she ran hither and yon with her hands shading her eyes as if she was desperately searching for someone. Her finale, a series of flawless cartwheels across the stage, covered her hands in dust. She sank into the splits and flung a triumphant look across the spotlights.
‘Lovely. Thank you. Next.’ The same neutral voice from the stalls.
‘Saba Tarcan. On stage, please. Hurry! Quick.’
Dom, hidden in the upper circle of the theatre, sat up straight when he heard this. He trained his eyes on her like a pistol. He’d got her message, and ignored it because he wanted to hear her sing again. It was a kind of dare – for himself, if nothing else – to prove he could have her if he wanted to.
He’d sneaked in after slipping half a crown to the friendly doorman, who’d shaken his hand and said, ‘We owe a lot to you boys in blue.’ He’d kept her original letter to him in his wallet: I expect to be in London, at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, on 17 March for an audition at
A pale girl in ballet shoes sat four rows behind them clutching a black bag on her lap. Beside her, silent and pensive-looking, the old comedian.
‘Right now. Shall we crack on then?’ A disembodied voice from the stalls. ‘We’ve got a lot to cover today. The old man, Willie, you first. Come on!’
A stenographer with a clipboard sat down quietly beside the three men. The music struck up, whistles and trumpets and silly trombones. A few seconds later, old Willie ran out, fleet-footed in his patent-leather pumps, shouting, ‘Well here we are then!’
Arleta clutched Saba’s hand, digging her nails into the palm. ‘He needs this so badly,’ she whispered in the dark. ‘His wife died a few months ago. Married thirty-four years. Heartbroken.’
Willie went down arthritically on one knee and sang ‘Old Man River’ with silly wobbling lips. The silence from the auditorium was deafening – no laughter from the watching men, no applause. For his next trick he deadpanned what Arleta whispered was his speciality: a hopelessly garbled version of a nursery rhyme called ‘Little Red Hoodingride and the Forty Thieves’.
Saba joined in with Arleta’s rich laughter; Willie was really funny.
After his next joke, about utility knickers – ‘One Yank and they’re off’ – a shadowy figure stood up behind the orchestra pit and said:
‘Mr Wise, I take it you understand our blue-joke policy?’
‘Sorry?’ The old man walked towards the spotlight and stood there blinking nervously.
‘If you get chosen, all scripts must be submitted to us for a signature. We’re clear about the standards we want to live up to; we hope you are too.’
‘All present and correct, sir.’ Willie stood in a blue haze, smiling glassily. ‘Appreciate the warning.’ He clicked his heels and saluted, and it was hard to tell in that unstable light whether he was mocking or simply scared.
The pale girl rose. She had long limbs, very thin eyebrows and beautiful hands. She wafted towards the main spotlight and stood there smiling tensely.
‘Janine De Vere. I’m from Sadler’s Wells, you might remember.’ The posh voice bore faint traces of Manchester.
‘What have you got for us, Miss De Vere?’ from the dark.
‘My wide-ranging repertoire includes tap and Greek dancing. Ah’m very versatile.’
‘Oh get you,’ murmured Arleta.
‘Well perhaps a small sample. We don’t have long.’
Miss De Vere cleared her throat and faced the wings. She held a beseeching hand towards a woman in an army uniform and sensible shoes who put the needle down on the gramophone. Syrupy music rose and sobbed. Miss De Vere took a tweed coat off and in a sea-green tutu sprang into action with a series of leaps across the stage. With her long pale arms moving like seaweed as she twirled and jumped and with light patting sounds, she ran hither and yon with her hands shading her eyes as if she was desperately searching for someone. Her finale, a series of flawless cartwheels across the stage, covered her hands in dust. She sank into the splits and flung a triumphant look across the spotlights.
‘Lovely. Thank you. Next.’ The same neutral voice from the stalls.
‘Saba Tarcan. On stage, please. Hurry! Quick.’
Dom, hidden in the upper circle of the theatre, sat up straight when he heard this. He trained his eyes on her like a pistol. He’d got her message, and ignored it because he wanted to hear her sing again. It was a kind of dare – for himself, if nothing else – to prove he could have her if he wanted to.
He’d sneaked in after slipping half a crown to the friendly doorman, who’d shaken his hand and said, ‘We owe a lot to you boys in blue.’ He’d kept her original letter to him in his wallet: I expect to be in London, at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, on 17 March for an audition at
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