Empire.
The thing everyone knows about the Empire, Leicester Square, was that when the old king was dying, his last words were to ask what was showing there. The people whose duty it is to write down last words of kings then claimed that he’d said, “What about the Empire?”, a much more appropriate thought for a king in his dying moments, and I expect it warmed the hearts of people from Calcutta to Calgary, until they heard what he’d really said, which was soon leaked. “What’s on at the Empire?” Silly old fool.
I never go to the cinema. Partly this is because I was either working and didn’t have time or wasn’t working and didn’t want to waste the money. But there was also an element of being a stage actor and not wanting to support the thing that was killing theater. I’d often seen the Empire, as I crossed Leicester Square, and marveled at how hugely vulgar it was, but I’d never been inside. Banks of lights on the front proclaimed that they were now showing Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn in Travels in Tartary . It was half-past nine, and a kind of dusky dark; the sun hadn’t long set, as it was June, but of course the rain made it darker.
Siddy was standing under the shelter of the awning, lighting a cigarette, her hands cupped around the match and lighting her face from below with odd flickering shadows. She dragged at it impatiently as I walked towards her. She looked up, scanning the crowds, but didn’t see me. I thought she looked tired and anxious, and terribly like Mamma.
“Fats,” she said in acknowledgment, when I came up close. “Not that you are the slightest bit fat, I don’t know why we call you that.”
“I had puppy fat for about two weeks when I was fourteen,” I said. “It was when Tess was coming out, and we all had dresses made for it.”
“White frilly ones with horrid puffed sleeves that made you look a fright,” Siddy said, smiling. “I remember.”
“I always hated being called Fatso,” I said.
“I can’t remember, what did we call you before?” she asked.
“Vile, which I suppose is only natural,” I said.
“Like me being called Mustard, I suppose,” she said, dropping the butt of her cigarette and grinding it out under her heel. “I always hated that, too. Awful the things we did to each other. What do your friends call you now?”
“Viola,” I said, dryly. “It doesn’t seem too strange to theater people. Or Vi, sometimes.”
“You’d think with Ma being nuts about Shakespeare she’d have liked you going on stage, not acted as if it was a den of vice,” Siddy said. “Want a fag?” She offered the packet. They were long and tipped, du Mauriers.
I took one, and she lit them both. “Shall we go somewhere and have a coffee?” I asked.
“Yes, let’s,” she said, but didn’t move. “Did you take a cab?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I came on the Underground.”
“Did you? How frightfully clever of you. I don’t think anyone was following me.” Siddy started to walk, and I followed.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“Let’s sit down somewhere first. Where?”
“There’s a nice little place called Mimi’s in Covent Garden,” I suggested.
“Not somewhere they know you, silly!” Siddy looked at me sideways, moving only her eyes, not her head, something she’d always done. It made her look rather like a Siamese cat.
“There’s a Joe Lyons Automat on the corner of Charing Cross Road,” I said.
“That would be good.” We walked in silence through the rain towards the Lyons. It was packed, as usual, but I didn’t see anyone I knew. Siddy seemed charmed with the automatic nature of the hatches. “You can get a cold chicken leg for two shillings! Or chocolate cake for ninepence!”
“Yes, it’s simply lovely for the DW, now can you get what you want and let us sit down?”
She slid money in and released an anemic slice of apple tart. I settled for coffee. We took our trays over to an empty table
The thing everyone knows about the Empire, Leicester Square, was that when the old king was dying, his last words were to ask what was showing there. The people whose duty it is to write down last words of kings then claimed that he’d said, “What about the Empire?”, a much more appropriate thought for a king in his dying moments, and I expect it warmed the hearts of people from Calcutta to Calgary, until they heard what he’d really said, which was soon leaked. “What’s on at the Empire?” Silly old fool.
I never go to the cinema. Partly this is because I was either working and didn’t have time or wasn’t working and didn’t want to waste the money. But there was also an element of being a stage actor and not wanting to support the thing that was killing theater. I’d often seen the Empire, as I crossed Leicester Square, and marveled at how hugely vulgar it was, but I’d never been inside. Banks of lights on the front proclaimed that they were now showing Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn in Travels in Tartary . It was half-past nine, and a kind of dusky dark; the sun hadn’t long set, as it was June, but of course the rain made it darker.
Siddy was standing under the shelter of the awning, lighting a cigarette, her hands cupped around the match and lighting her face from below with odd flickering shadows. She dragged at it impatiently as I walked towards her. She looked up, scanning the crowds, but didn’t see me. I thought she looked tired and anxious, and terribly like Mamma.
“Fats,” she said in acknowledgment, when I came up close. “Not that you are the slightest bit fat, I don’t know why we call you that.”
“I had puppy fat for about two weeks when I was fourteen,” I said. “It was when Tess was coming out, and we all had dresses made for it.”
“White frilly ones with horrid puffed sleeves that made you look a fright,” Siddy said, smiling. “I remember.”
“I always hated being called Fatso,” I said.
“I can’t remember, what did we call you before?” she asked.
“Vile, which I suppose is only natural,” I said.
“Like me being called Mustard, I suppose,” she said, dropping the butt of her cigarette and grinding it out under her heel. “I always hated that, too. Awful the things we did to each other. What do your friends call you now?”
“Viola,” I said, dryly. “It doesn’t seem too strange to theater people. Or Vi, sometimes.”
“You’d think with Ma being nuts about Shakespeare she’d have liked you going on stage, not acted as if it was a den of vice,” Siddy said. “Want a fag?” She offered the packet. They were long and tipped, du Mauriers.
I took one, and she lit them both. “Shall we go somewhere and have a coffee?” I asked.
“Yes, let’s,” she said, but didn’t move. “Did you take a cab?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I came on the Underground.”
“Did you? How frightfully clever of you. I don’t think anyone was following me.” Siddy started to walk, and I followed.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“Let’s sit down somewhere first. Where?”
“There’s a nice little place called Mimi’s in Covent Garden,” I suggested.
“Not somewhere they know you, silly!” Siddy looked at me sideways, moving only her eyes, not her head, something she’d always done. It made her look rather like a Siamese cat.
“There’s a Joe Lyons Automat on the corner of Charing Cross Road,” I said.
“That would be good.” We walked in silence through the rain towards the Lyons. It was packed, as usual, but I didn’t see anyone I knew. Siddy seemed charmed with the automatic nature of the hatches. “You can get a cold chicken leg for two shillings! Or chocolate cake for ninepence!”
“Yes, it’s simply lovely for the DW, now can you get what you want and let us sit down?”
She slid money in and released an anemic slice of apple tart. I settled for coffee. We took our trays over to an empty table
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