Authors: Chris England
The Fun Factory (29 page)
My own mood was dark, however. The disappointment of the showdown at the Oxford weighed heavily on me, but even that was not as burdensome as the recollection of how things stood between myself and Tilly.
It was still hard to even think of her and Karno together that afternoon.
Karno unbuckling his belt.
It was even harder to remember her small voice saying: “It was for you, Arthur. So I could be with you…”
Karno giving a little cough.
There was not even much comfort in the memory of the magical time we spent together on that tour masquerading as man and wife, for I had messed that up, and then just as surely messed everything up again.
More and more I would slip out of the front gate once dinner was done, and nip down to the river for a swift pint or three at the Mill. There I would usually sit by myself, trying to force my brain not to think about Charlie as a number-one comic. Beer helped, but not much, even though I was now following the advice of the great Gus Elen and having at least’arf a pint of ale at every meal, including breakfast, and another meal or two besides that I’d invented between luncheon and supper.
I puzzled away relentlessly at the events of that night at the Oxford. The more I thought about it, the more I thought I had something. I remembered Spiksley and Crabtree running their book on the contest between myself and Chaplin, complaining that we were too evenly matched. I remembered their special rehearsals with my rival, and Billy Wragg offering his services in a similar regard to me. Then Charlie’s performance went badly, thanks to the two of them, and the odds suddenly became a lot more interesting. Was it not possible that the footballers had deliberately sabotaged Charlie, so that they would then be able to take heavy bets on me from the likes of Ralph Luscombe, knowing that Wragg was going to ruin my chances in turn? It was more than possible. The swine were easily selfish enough and venal enough to devise a scheme of that sort.
I vented my furious imaginings on the footballers, then, as Charlie and I seemed to be mere pawns in their game. In fact, I reasoned, the whole contest had actually been decided on the toss of a coin in Karno’s office.
Even though I was not, now I think of it, happy, I had decided that the college was going to be my life from now on. How could I return to the Fun Factory now? My relationship with Karno was surely in ruins. And how could I even contemplate the humiliation of working under Charlie, still less having to meet Tilly again. I tried to put the whole thing from my mind, but it was hard, it was hard.
One afternoon I popped into a cake shop – Fitz’s, around the corner from the porter’s lodge – to collect some pink coconut confections that a Mr Vermont on one of my staircases was particularly fond of, and who should be there taking tea with a bunch of hangers-on and acolytes but The Rotter, Harry Rottenburg, large as life, the progenitor of the mechanical brontosaurus which had propelled me into show business. Well, regurgitated me into show business.
I could not resist introducing myself.
“What ho, Rotter,” I said, at his shoulder. He was in mid-anecdote, and turned to see who had dared to interrupt his flow. His florid face clouded as he tried to place me.
“Dandoe,” I said. “
The Varsity B.C.
” I turned to his companions while he digested this. “I got eaten by a mechanical dinosaur. Marvellous fun.”
“Indeed! Indeed!” the Rotter cried once the light had dawned, standing to pump my hand warmly. “How do ye do, my dear fellow? How do ye do? Will you join us?”
I held up the box of coconut treats by the string, and explained that, sadly, I was expected back at the college.
“Well, look here, you absolutely
must
come to the show…” He snapped his fingers at a disciple, who fumbled in his coat pocket and came up with a small fly sheet. “Tonight we try out my latest. Come and see!”
And so that night, instead of disappearing down to the pub to wallow in misery and ale, as had become my habit, I took myself off to see the show at the New Theatre. It was the first night of a Footlights effort, written, naturally, by The Rotter himself, a self-styled musical satire entitled
The Socialist
, ridiculing the political ideas being espoused by Mr Shaw, Mr Wells and the Fabian Society.
The idea of the piece involved a college succumbing to socialism, with hilarious consequences. The students marked their own examinations, and awarded each other firsts. In a society where everyone is equal, you see, what is the point of a second-class degree?
Now this show may sound flimsy and insubstantial, but it forcibly reminded me of something else I had turned my back on. Those Footlights boys were not a patch on the Fun Factory journeymen I had been used to working with, but watching them made me think of what it was like to be on the stage. It made me think of the Power, frankly, and whether I would ever feel anything so intoxicating again. I found I missed it like a physical pain.
Then there was the ridiculous play itself, with its “Yah-
boo-sucks
to the workers!” It brought home to me that if I were to continue as I was, as a college servant, then I would always belong to that downtrodden and unregarded class, always be a-tugging my forelock, always be serving the port, making the beds and clearing up after the young gentlemen.
Whereas at the Fun Factory, it struck me, one man was reckoned superior to another only by virtue of his talents. And when we Karno boys were travelling from city to city, peering out of the railway train windows at the factories and cobbled streets where the workers lived, or at the fancier toffs’ dwellings on the hills, did we really see anywhere we would rather be? We were the chosen ones. We could do the things, and go to the places, and live the lives they could only dream of…
It was useless to dwell on it, though. That part of my life was over. Karno was done with, comedy was done with, for I could not bear to start from scratch somewhere else, or as a solo. Chaplin, our rivalry, was behind me, and Tilly –
ah, Tilly!
– how could I look her in the eye again?
Nothing, I thought, would induce me to go within fifty miles of the blasted Fun Factory ever again.
Until one spring morning a crisp white envelope arrived at the porter’s lodge bearing my name.
An invitation to a wedding.
EASTER
Saturday was a sweltering hot spring day, and I found myself dressed to the nines and crammed into Brompton Oratory together with the cream of the British music hall. As the matrimonials were concluded I glanced around the assembled crowd and felt the honour of being invited to this gathering, for you could hardly have afforded such a bill unless you were the Royal Command performance itself. The first of those, incidentally, was still a couple of years off, I think I’m right in saying, and Marie Lloyd was not invited to take part – how about that? Too saucy, apparently. Nor was Fred Karno, the single biggest draw in the world of the music hall, invited to submit a contribution to the entertainment.
Marie Lloyd was at this particular do, though, as were George Robey, Gus Elen, Albert Chevalier and many more, as well as theatre managers and impresarios from across the capital. Alf Reeves was clearly a popular figure on the music hall scene, and there was quite a turnout to celebrate his nuptials. Happy though I was for old Alf, it wasn’t my friendship with him that had brought me
all the way down from Cambridge. It was his bride, lovely little Amy Minister, who had been on that
Mumming Birds
tour with me so many months before. She was friendly with Tilly Beckett, you see, and it was the chance of seeing her that had enlivened my every waking moment since the invitation had arrived, and had sent me running for the London train at the crack of dawn.
The Karno organisation was such a sensitive and hierarchical monster that Alf and Amy had had to restrict their invitations to the top level, or else invite absolutely everyone, so only the top number ones were there. Fred Kitchen, Billie Ritchie, Jimmy Russell and Johnny Doyle were in attendance, and so, sitting together near the front, were Syd and Charlie Chaplin. The whole affair’s culminating act of diplomacy was the installation of the Guv’nor himself as Alf’s best man. Anything else was unthinkable.
Karno had been the very soul of generosity, and had not only volunteered the use of the entire fleet of Karno company omnibuses to transport the assembled multitude to the reception, but had also offered up the Fun Factory itself to host the occasion.
After the nuptials were officially concluded, we spilled out into the sunshine and crammed higgledy-piggledy into the conveyances like a bunch of kids going to the seaside. The non-Karno people were not aware that the lower levels were strictly for the senior performers, of course, so I found myself cheerfully crammed on the open top deck between the celebrated Mr Elen and Miss Lloyd, who waved at a few dozen star spotters on the pavement below.
Off we rattled over the river towards Camberwell, and I took the opportunity to introduce myself to the great Marie.
“Miss Lloyd?” I said. “We haven’t met, although I have written to you to thank you for your generosity when my knee was broken. I am Arthur Dandoe.”
“Of course you are!” the great comedienne cried. “I recognises you, Arthur, an’ I recalls your letter. Most gracious it was. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance at last.”
“Let me say again how grateful I am for your help,” I said. “It was much appreciated.”
“Well,” Marie said, leaning in and confiding in hushed tones. “What you did was much appreciated by me, and all of Edith’s friends, so let’s say no more about it.”
She patted me on the chest in a friendly manner, and I only discovered later that she had slipped a five-pound note into my inside pocket. I did feel something of a fraud, I must confess. Didn’t give it back, though.
The Fun Factory was transformed for the reception, with cream-coloured ribbons and yellow flowers, and running along the back wall was the big backdrop from
The Football Match
, which had been painted over so that the crowd were sporting buttonholes and top hats.
I was seated with Edith Karno and her party, next to Freddie and across from Clara and Charley Bell. They were all delighted to see me and treated me like some kind of martyred hero, which was a little embarrassing.
The wedding party processed to the top table, and as they did so some unseen hand flicked a switch on the big fans so that the arms on the backdrop waved in the air. Nice effect.
Alf and Amy made their way to the position of honour, wreathed in smiles. Then came Karno and Maria, who tried to ignore our table completely as they passed, but Karno caught
sight of me there and turned to stare, his eyes narrowing in surprise. I stared right back. I didn’t work for him any more, and I didn’t care what he thought of me.
Then came the bridesmaids, two of Amy’s sisters and – my goodness! – Tilly Beckett, looking a real picture, with her hair fully restored to its natural golden colour, and her green eyes twinkling with happiness for her friend. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
As luncheon was served I turned to Freddie.
“That crowd scene will need a bit of cleaning up after this, won’t it?” I said.
“Oh,
The Football Match
is long gone,” Freddie said. “Did you not hear?”
“Hear?” I asked. “Hear what?”
“Oh well, a few days after that business at the Oxford – must have been the very day you left for Cambridge, I should think – young Chaplin went down with bad laryngitis. Couldn’t say a dicky bird. Well, if only
you
hadn’t…” He waved a fork at my knee, and I completed his thought.
“…hadn’t been crocked, I would have been right there to step in, wouldn’t I?” I sighed. “So, what, Will Poluski did it? Or who?”
“No, the Guv’nor pulled the show entirely, scrapped it, cancelled all the bookings.”
“He did
what
?”
“He got wind that some of those football fellows had mucked about with the shows because of some gambling scheme that they had cooked up, and he was so furious that he took it as a perfect opportunity to sack them all. I’ve never seen him so angry. He swears he’ll never employ any of them ever again.”
Ha, I thought. Retribution! Justice! Comeuppance! Eat that, you money-grabbing swine!
“Do you know, I thought it might be that way,” I said. “So Billy Wragg broke my knee on purpose, d’you think?”
Freddie shrugged. “That one was sacked before the curtain hit the apron,” he said. “The Guv’nor did it himself. He was livid.”
I could see Syd and Charlie Chaplin sitting together at the opposite side of the room. “So, if not
The Football Match
, what is Charlie doing now?”
“New piece,” Freddie said, chomping on a bit of beef. “Called
Skating
. On roller skates. Two companies. Syd’s number one of one, and Charlie’s the number one of the other.”
Suddenly I didn’t feel like finishing my food.
After the meal there were speeches, of course. I remember Karno’s best man speech well. He seemed to have the idea that we would like to hear a speech about himself, rather than the bride or groom particularly. After all, Alf and Amy worked for him fifty-two weeks of the year, so his story was their story, in a way, was how he set it up.
He told us a tale of how he had first come to London. Like many successful fellows, he enjoyed laying it on about how poor he had been to begin with, and even reverted to his thicker accent to remind us of his humble roots. He’d found himself on his uppers, and he and a pal had decided to work their way down to the capital to try their fortune. Young Karno had got hold of a glazier’s kit, and they tramped from town to town mending windows and getting by that way. Until they hit a rough patch.
“We come to this village, see,” the Guv’nor recounted, one thumb tucked into his waistcoat. “And we hadn’t a bean, not even t’ price of a cup o’ tea, and there was no jobs to do. So we sat there on a wall, glum like, an’ I says to Tom: ‘See that shop
winder over there? That winder could just break tonight, and in t’ morning they’d be glad to ’ave it fixed.’
“That night I slipped back into that village, bunged a brick through this winder and a branch through that, an’ when we came along in t’ morning shoutin’ ‘Winders to mend?’ the whole town come a-runnin’! An’ that’s how we made it down to London. Smashin’ winders at night, an’ mendin’ ’em in t’ mornin’!”
Sound familiar, that story? Thought it might…
11
Karno then moved on to his solemn duty of offering a toast to the lovely bridesmaids. I saw a look pass between the Guv’nor and Tilly as he raised his glass, and struggled to interpret it. The image of the ‘guvving’ forced itself upon me for the umpteenth time, but his crooked smile looked, what…? Hopeful…? Or was
I
the optimist?
“So when are you coming back, then?” Freddie asked me suddenly. “Clara’s kept your room for you, haven’t you, Clara?”
“Of course I have,” Clara said cheerily.
“Oh, well, I’m not sure the Guv’nor would have me back, after…”
“Oh nonsense,” Clara said. “He’s hardly spoken to Charley for nearly ten years, has he Charley, but he knows a good man when he’s got one.”
People were beginning to mill about, now, in search of drink and conversation, so I excused myself and went for a wander rather than let them pursue the matter. Almost immediately I bumped into George Craig, last seen storming out of the Enterprise after being summarily fired, making his way back to his table with a couple of frothing glasses of champers.
“Hullo, George,” I said. “I thought you were working for Wal Pink.”
“No, no,” George said with an almighty wink. “I’m working for the Guv’nor. Don’t you worry about that.”
And off he went to join Lillie. I reckoned one way or another George must be a better actor than I’d ever given him credit for.
I found myself a vantage point where I could watch Tilly. She was smiling, fending off the drunken attentions of Billy Reeves, Alf’s brother. I found myself close to the table where the Chaplin brothers were sitting, and when I glanced that way I caught Charlie looking at me. He beamed brightly all of a sudden, and bounced over to where I was standing. Grasping my hand and shaking it vigorously, he made a great business of inspecting my right trouser leg, as though he could see through it to the knee inside.
“Arthur! How marvellous that you are here! Are you recovered?”
“I’ll manage,” I said, holding up the cane I now walked with.
“Terrible business, that was, terrible. We were all terribly shocked, and worried about you, you know?”
A brief mental image from the Oxford surfaced, of Chaplin being carried around on shoulders celebrating while an incompetent veterinarian overdosed me with ether.
“And, you know, I’d much rather have won that contest fair and square, and I would have done, I think. Well, you know I would have, don’t you? Deep down?”
“I … er…” I spluttered, but Charlie was chattering away, a bag of nerves.
“And I know I didn’t come to visit you, and I should have, I should have, but you haven’t congratulated me on my success either, now have you?” And he poked me in the chest reprovingly.
“Well … congratulations,” I managed to make myself say.
“Thank you, Arthur, thank you kindly. Better man won, eh?”
“I didn’t say
that
exactly,” I said, but his nervous chatter just rolled over it.