little story, shall I? Talking of sirens, that reminds me ⦠Any sailors in the audience? No, thank you, I donât want you up here now. After the performance, Jack, and Iâll be only too happy to oblige you ⦠Now did any of you maritime heroes ever happen to meet a real genuine siren, the sort that sits around on rocks, singing her head off, with nothing to wear but a bit of seaweed? Iâm going to tell you about some as did. It seems there were these three shipwrecked sailors floating across the great big empty ocean on this raft â¦â
Not more than half a dozen of the audience had left but the story lasted twenty minutes. Andrew had been on stage when it began, being sung to about rainbows. He listened and watched, rapt. The story was rubbish, its plot just an excuse for anatomical extravagances, with the back rows bellowing encouragement at each variation, but despite that something thrilling took place. Like Samson being given his strength for an hour to pull the temple down on the Philistines, so the battered old Dame was given this last spurt of theatrical energy to do whatever he wanted, winding the tension of laughter up and letting it unreel, at the height of the uproar commanding silence with one crooked finger, then tossing a hiccup into the pool of silence and allowing the ripples to fade and fade until, at the exact and necessary instant, he plunged on.
It was an impossible act to follow. Snow White, almost as old a hand as the Dame, must have seen this in the first few minutes. She went home to her digs, giving the assistant stage manager, a fat woman who wouldnât take her specs off, time to dress and take over. The rest of the performance was drowned in cat-calls except when the Dame was on stage, and then shouts for more of the same. He obliged with ancient blue lines, but the God Hercules had left him. By common consent the cast cut most of the remaining scenes, performing what they chose in front of the wrong sets, so despite the interpolation they finished five minutes before the usual time. The audience went out to the sound of the All Clear.
Toby was a gentle, sad, elderly man who had worked in theatres since he was a child. The only trouble with him was that he kept hoping. While he was supposed to be clearing up after the first evening performance he would find excuses to enter the cave which Andrew had made for himself under the stage, talking about long-forgotten stand-up comics and patter-song artists, settling on to the end of the mattress and trying to progress from there. Once heâd finished his work he went home, so Andrew had found it simplest to leave with the cast, taking a key with him, and wander about till midnight.
The first night he tried going south-east, into the bomb-flattened heart of the city, empty now but not silent. The docks were working all night, and the trains rattled to and fro across the wilderness of cleared rubble. A few buildings and half-buildings still stood, but blind, their shattered windows boarded. He walked quickly, because of the cold, and it was only by luck that he didnât run into the arms of a couple of bobbies on patrol; he spotted the flicker of a torch-beam before they could have heard his footsteps and had time to hide among the gravestones of a roofless church. Anybody found wandering down here would be stopped and questioned. He didnât want that. It struck him that by now a letter might have come from The Mimms, and Mum would be worrying because he hadnât turned up. In a day or two the police might be looking for him.
So the next night he walked north-west and slid a note under the door of Number 19ââEverything OK. Having fine time. See you Monday. Love, A.â Then he zig-zagged back to St Michaelâs, giving Toby time to clear off. From then on he did his wandering through still-inhabited areas, though about every street had the odd bomb-gap. Here he could walk as if he was going
Not more than half a dozen of the audience had left but the story lasted twenty minutes. Andrew had been on stage when it began, being sung to about rainbows. He listened and watched, rapt. The story was rubbish, its plot just an excuse for anatomical extravagances, with the back rows bellowing encouragement at each variation, but despite that something thrilling took place. Like Samson being given his strength for an hour to pull the temple down on the Philistines, so the battered old Dame was given this last spurt of theatrical energy to do whatever he wanted, winding the tension of laughter up and letting it unreel, at the height of the uproar commanding silence with one crooked finger, then tossing a hiccup into the pool of silence and allowing the ripples to fade and fade until, at the exact and necessary instant, he plunged on.
It was an impossible act to follow. Snow White, almost as old a hand as the Dame, must have seen this in the first few minutes. She went home to her digs, giving the assistant stage manager, a fat woman who wouldnât take her specs off, time to dress and take over. The rest of the performance was drowned in cat-calls except when the Dame was on stage, and then shouts for more of the same. He obliged with ancient blue lines, but the God Hercules had left him. By common consent the cast cut most of the remaining scenes, performing what they chose in front of the wrong sets, so despite the interpolation they finished five minutes before the usual time. The audience went out to the sound of the All Clear.
Toby was a gentle, sad, elderly man who had worked in theatres since he was a child. The only trouble with him was that he kept hoping. While he was supposed to be clearing up after the first evening performance he would find excuses to enter the cave which Andrew had made for himself under the stage, talking about long-forgotten stand-up comics and patter-song artists, settling on to the end of the mattress and trying to progress from there. Once heâd finished his work he went home, so Andrew had found it simplest to leave with the cast, taking a key with him, and wander about till midnight.
The first night he tried going south-east, into the bomb-flattened heart of the city, empty now but not silent. The docks were working all night, and the trains rattled to and fro across the wilderness of cleared rubble. A few buildings and half-buildings still stood, but blind, their shattered windows boarded. He walked quickly, because of the cold, and it was only by luck that he didnât run into the arms of a couple of bobbies on patrol; he spotted the flicker of a torch-beam before they could have heard his footsteps and had time to hide among the gravestones of a roofless church. Anybody found wandering down here would be stopped and questioned. He didnât want that. It struck him that by now a letter might have come from The Mimms, and Mum would be worrying because he hadnât turned up. In a day or two the police might be looking for him.
So the next night he walked north-west and slid a note under the door of Number 19ââEverything OK. Having fine time. See you Monday. Love, A.â Then he zig-zagged back to St Michaelâs, giving Toby time to clear off. From then on he did his wandering through still-inhabited areas, though about every street had the odd bomb-gap. Here he could walk as if he was going
Similar Books
