bleedinâ nuisance, pardon their language, dear, it was a shocking inconvenience when you had paid two and sixpence a go, and then had to walk along a rain-sodden alley with no umbrella. You would have thought the Tarleton might have had a better approach to the stage door, wouldnât you?
They wandered round the stage, criticizing the placement of curtains and properties, picking up the threads of long-running quarrels with one another and getting in the way of Rinaldi, the stage manager, who had been at the Tarleton since he was eight, learning his trade from his father who had been call-boy and pot-boy combined and had lived in a sliver of a room in Candle Street along with six others, and been grateful for the pork pie given him each evening as part of his wages. The present Rinaldi lived in the same house, but now owned it, and his wages were considerably more than a pork pie. He was the mainstay and prop of the theatre; Toby held him in considerable affection and could not imagine life without him.
It was one of the theatreâs gentler legends that Rinaldi had been devotedly and blamelessly in love with Tobyâs mother since he was eighteen when she was a famous music-hall dancer, performing to London audiences wearing a few feathers and sequins and plying the enormous fan that had been her trademark. It was a good twenty years since Floraâs marriage to Sir Hal Chance had sent tremors of shock through the Foreign Office, but people still occasionally told how Mr Gladstone himself had sent for Hal, and said, âNow look here, Chance, you canât possibly marry a music-hall performer who calls herself the Flowered Fan.â Toby had no idea if this had actually happened and he had never been able to ask either of his parents about it, but he always hoped the story was true.
Tonightâs dancers were complaining vociferously about the dressing room allotted to them, and reminded Toby, solo and in concert, that they had been headliners on several of the halls. Elise Le Brun, who had been born plain Elsie Brown but did not believe in letting oneâs origins get in the way and was the leading Romain dancer, said it was not good enough, it reely was not. They had played Holborn Empire last winter and Collinsâs Music Hall in the spring. They had been called the new Gaiety Girls more than once, which just went to show.
The lugubrious comedian was drunk, and the sharp-witted Cockney, whose name was Bunstable, was cheerfully toasting kippers over the gas ring in the green room. The smell would probably reach the first six rows of the stalls. Remonstrated with, Bunstable said, peaceably, that he could never do a show on an empty stomach, and added that he was partial to a kipper for his tea and was in fact developing a whole new comic routine in which the kippers assumed a significant part. He offered Toby and the flute player a share in the repast by way of appeasement. The flute player, who was trying to dry his music over the gas ring, accepted, but Toby refused and told Bunstable to open all the windows.
After this, he asked Bob Shilling, who had been leering at the Rose Romains, to make black coffee for the drunken comedian. He told Le Brun that the Tarleton was so old it was impossible to have the dressing rooms made any larger and offered to release her from the eveningâs engagement, although it was a pity if she and the other girls did not stay, said Toby artfully, what with the agent for Drury Lane coming in tonight, touting for possible acts for pantomime. Le Brunâs eager cat-like face sharpened, and she said, Oh well, if that was the case, she had not perfectly understood, and they might squeeze in one of their extras as a favour.
May God forgive me for lying! thought Toby and went up into the flies to make sure the backcloth for his song was in place. He and Rinaldi had explored the under-stage storage rooms the previous day: he had asked Rinaldi to come with him, partly
They wandered round the stage, criticizing the placement of curtains and properties, picking up the threads of long-running quarrels with one another and getting in the way of Rinaldi, the stage manager, who had been at the Tarleton since he was eight, learning his trade from his father who had been call-boy and pot-boy combined and had lived in a sliver of a room in Candle Street along with six others, and been grateful for the pork pie given him each evening as part of his wages. The present Rinaldi lived in the same house, but now owned it, and his wages were considerably more than a pork pie. He was the mainstay and prop of the theatre; Toby held him in considerable affection and could not imagine life without him.
It was one of the theatreâs gentler legends that Rinaldi had been devotedly and blamelessly in love with Tobyâs mother since he was eighteen when she was a famous music-hall dancer, performing to London audiences wearing a few feathers and sequins and plying the enormous fan that had been her trademark. It was a good twenty years since Floraâs marriage to Sir Hal Chance had sent tremors of shock through the Foreign Office, but people still occasionally told how Mr Gladstone himself had sent for Hal, and said, âNow look here, Chance, you canât possibly marry a music-hall performer who calls herself the Flowered Fan.â Toby had no idea if this had actually happened and he had never been able to ask either of his parents about it, but he always hoped the story was true.
Tonightâs dancers were complaining vociferously about the dressing room allotted to them, and reminded Toby, solo and in concert, that they had been headliners on several of the halls. Elise Le Brun, who had been born plain Elsie Brown but did not believe in letting oneâs origins get in the way and was the leading Romain dancer, said it was not good enough, it reely was not. They had played Holborn Empire last winter and Collinsâs Music Hall in the spring. They had been called the new Gaiety Girls more than once, which just went to show.
The lugubrious comedian was drunk, and the sharp-witted Cockney, whose name was Bunstable, was cheerfully toasting kippers over the gas ring in the green room. The smell would probably reach the first six rows of the stalls. Remonstrated with, Bunstable said, peaceably, that he could never do a show on an empty stomach, and added that he was partial to a kipper for his tea and was in fact developing a whole new comic routine in which the kippers assumed a significant part. He offered Toby and the flute player a share in the repast by way of appeasement. The flute player, who was trying to dry his music over the gas ring, accepted, but Toby refused and told Bunstable to open all the windows.
After this, he asked Bob Shilling, who had been leering at the Rose Romains, to make black coffee for the drunken comedian. He told Le Brun that the Tarleton was so old it was impossible to have the dressing rooms made any larger and offered to release her from the eveningâs engagement, although it was a pity if she and the other girls did not stay, said Toby artfully, what with the agent for Drury Lane coming in tonight, touting for possible acts for pantomime. Le Brunâs eager cat-like face sharpened, and she said, Oh well, if that was the case, she had not perfectly understood, and they might squeeze in one of their extras as a favour.
May God forgive me for lying! thought Toby and went up into the flies to make sure the backcloth for his song was in place. He and Rinaldi had explored the under-stage storage rooms the previous day: he had asked Rinaldi to come with him, partly
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