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Authors: Michael Moorcock
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sang the audience and then began to cheer. The curtain rose.
Una reached the dressing room. Though she shared it with Marguerite Cornille, the comédienne, it was the best-equipped dressing room she had ever used. This was her first time at the Empire, Leicester Square. It was one of the most respected of the newer, better class of music halls: a Theatre of Varieties. But it was the very reputation and respectability of the Empire which distressed Una so much. She was used to the friendlier, less ostentatious halls of Stepney, Brixton and Shepherd’s Bush.
“The atmosphere’s a bit frosty.” She entered the dressing room and nodded to Mlle Cornille who was making up already, with one eye on the mirror and the other on a magazine she held in her left hand, even though she was tenth on the programme.
“You get used to it, love. The crowd’s all right. Same as anywhere.” The pert-faced girl was re-reading a short photographic feature about herself in
Nash’s Magazine
which had just come out. “The rules and the snobs is the price you pay for regular work. It’s my last week here. It’ll be back to three different halls a night for me if I’m lucky and no halls at all if it’s really bad. So my two weeks at the Alhambra over Christmas’ll be like a holiday.” She was boasting a bit, for a feature in
Nash’s
usually meant a few good bookings at very least. Una wondered if
she
would ever go so far as showing her legs for a
Nash’s
photographer.
Auchinek came in, closing the door softly behind him. “A good audience, by the sound of it.”
“What I was saying,” said Mlle Cornille.
Auchinek offered them Unfiadis Egyptian cigarettes from his gold Liberty’s case. Mlle Cornille shook her head, but Una accepted one. As she lit it herself she looked closely at Auchinek, wondering what his real thoughts were.
“It’s a step up, Una.” He was her agent and in love with what he saw as her perfection, but he was embarrassed by the fact that he found Mlle Cornille’s brown curls and buxom charms more physically attractive. He was hoping that Una had not noticed. That Mlle Cornille had noticed was evident in the attitude of friendly contempt she took towards him.
Una picked up her music and read over the lines of her songs as she finished the cigarette. There was a knock on the door. “Overture and beginners second tab.”
Una felt her stomach muscles tighten. She spread her fingers wide as she ran her palms down the front of her thighs, over her trousers. Auchinek stepped forward and adjusted her bow tie. He handed her the cane and the silk opera hat, he flicked a speck of glitter from her tailcoat. “All right?”
She smiled. If she had had her own way she would have remained out of the West End, but she knew that he desperately wanted her to get to the top; and that was what performing at the Empire meant.
“Good luck, love,” said Mlle Cornille, both eyes now on her article.
“Stay here,” said Una to Auchinek.
“I’d rather…” he glanced guiltily away from the comédienne, “give you moral support.”
“Stay here.” She straightened her coat and put on her silk hat. “You can come to the wings and watch as soon as I’m on.”
“Very well.”
She walked down the corridor. Against a tide of returning Highlanders, Sailors, Beefeaters, Roses, Shamrocks, Thistles and Welsh girls, she made her way towards the wings. In the wings she saw that the chorus was already arranging itself on stage. There were eight girls, each dressed as a colony. There was India, Canada, Australia, Cape Colony, the West Indies, Malta, Gibraltar and New Zealand, each with her own verse to sing. In the opposite wings waited Art, Science, Commerce, Industry and a splendid Britannia, whose carriage they were to draw on stage. That was when Una would come on.
The curtain rose and the orchestra began a rousing accompaniment as the chorus sang together:
We, the children of the Empire, pay homage to
our
sang the audience and then began to cheer. The curtain rose.
Una reached the dressing room. Though she shared it with Marguerite Cornille, the comédienne, it was the best-equipped dressing room she had ever used. This was her first time at the Empire, Leicester Square. It was one of the most respected of the newer, better class of music halls: a Theatre of Varieties. But it was the very reputation and respectability of the Empire which distressed Una so much. She was used to the friendlier, less ostentatious halls of Stepney, Brixton and Shepherd’s Bush.
“The atmosphere’s a bit frosty.” She entered the dressing room and nodded to Mlle Cornille who was making up already, with one eye on the mirror and the other on a magazine she held in her left hand, even though she was tenth on the programme.
“You get used to it, love. The crowd’s all right. Same as anywhere.” The pert-faced girl was re-reading a short photographic feature about herself in
Nash’s Magazine
which had just come out. “The rules and the snobs is the price you pay for regular work. It’s my last week here. It’ll be back to three different halls a night for me if I’m lucky and no halls at all if it’s really bad. So my two weeks at the Alhambra over Christmas’ll be like a holiday.” She was boasting a bit, for a feature in
Nash’s
usually meant a few good bookings at very least. Una wondered if
she
would ever go so far as showing her legs for a
Nash’s
photographer.
Auchinek came in, closing the door softly behind him. “A good audience, by the sound of it.”
“What I was saying,” said Mlle Cornille.
Auchinek offered them Unfiadis Egyptian cigarettes from his gold Liberty’s case. Mlle Cornille shook her head, but Una accepted one. As she lit it herself she looked closely at Auchinek, wondering what his real thoughts were.
“It’s a step up, Una.” He was her agent and in love with what he saw as her perfection, but he was embarrassed by the fact that he found Mlle Cornille’s brown curls and buxom charms more physically attractive. He was hoping that Una had not noticed. That Mlle Cornille had noticed was evident in the attitude of friendly contempt she took towards him.
Una picked up her music and read over the lines of her songs as she finished the cigarette. There was a knock on the door. “Overture and beginners second tab.”
Una felt her stomach muscles tighten. She spread her fingers wide as she ran her palms down the front of her thighs, over her trousers. Auchinek stepped forward and adjusted her bow tie. He handed her the cane and the silk opera hat, he flicked a speck of glitter from her tailcoat. “All right?”
She smiled. If she had had her own way she would have remained out of the West End, but she knew that he desperately wanted her to get to the top; and that was what performing at the Empire meant.
“Good luck, love,” said Mlle Cornille, both eyes now on her article.
“Stay here,” said Una to Auchinek.
“I’d rather…” he glanced guiltily away from the comédienne, “give you moral support.”
“Stay here.” She straightened her coat and put on her silk hat. “You can come to the wings and watch as soon as I’m on.”
“Very well.”
She walked down the corridor. Against a tide of returning Highlanders, Sailors, Beefeaters, Roses, Shamrocks, Thistles and Welsh girls, she made her way towards the wings. In the wings she saw that the chorus was already arranging itself on stage. There were eight girls, each dressed as a colony. There was India, Canada, Australia, Cape Colony, the West Indies, Malta, Gibraltar and New Zealand, each with her own verse to sing. In the opposite wings waited Art, Science, Commerce, Industry and a splendid Britannia, whose carriage they were to draw on stage. That was when Una would come on.
The curtain rose and the orchestra began a rousing accompaniment as the chorus sang together:
We, the children of the Empire, pay homage to
our
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