The Fun Factory (9 page)

It’s a measure of how far gone I was, I suppose, that I actually started thinking about it.

“Well … I… er … um… Are you sure? I mean, we hardly … know each other…”

I ventured this gingerly, feeling the point ought really to be raised but not altogether wanting to put her off.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Tilly demanded.

“Well…” I stammered. “Perhaps we could walk out together a few times … see if we hit it off…?”

“We get along all right, don’t we?”

“Yes, yes, we do, I suppose, but…”

“There we are, then, what more do we need? Now, I’m thinking we’d be travelling to America to start a new life together, leaving behind everything and everyone we know … whatever’s up?”

I must have looked shocked, I suppose. “Oh? It’s just … America?”

“Yes?”

“Just like that?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I was just thinking, what about the show? I mean, maybe it will be all right after all, and will go for a few weeks, and then we can get a bit of money together and we’ll be able to afford…”

“I’m
talking
about the show, you chump! You know, we should pretend to be married, for our story, in the show. You surely didn’t think I was really proposing to marry you in real life, did you? What sort of a girl do you take me for, Arthur Dandoe?”

“Ha ha! Of course not! I was being a character,” I blurted out. I felt my face flush hot, and my collar suddenly felt about three sizes too small. “I was thinking I’d be a theatre entrepreneur, worrying about his latest show, and whether he’ll be able to afford to … to … you know, marry his lovely leading lady and whisk her off
to America, the land of opportunity, for the fresh start they both … um … long for. Something like that, you see?”

Tilly frowned, chewing this over. “Yes, that’s not bad. I like that. Not bad at all. You have to have a story, I reckon. Don’t you? Or else it’s just the deadliest thing imaginable, standing around, being human scenery. And, you know, the audience don’t need to know it, as long as
we
do, do they?”

I nodded and let out a long, slow sigh of relief that we were at last both on the same page of the script, so to speak. She carried on.

“So we’re leaving on the
Wontdetainia
, heading to America to make our fortunes. And hey, perhaps someone is trying to stop us. How about that? So we’re happy, but we’re also just that little bit anxious.”

“We’re eloping, then, are we?”

“Yes, yes. My father hates you, thinks you’ll never amount to anything, and he wants me to marry a vicar, with a big hook of a nose, like a beak…”

On and on we went, embellishing this little tale, until you’d have thought the whole
Wontdetainia
sketch was going to be about the two of us. Our pan-faced hostess eventually made her displeasure at our dragging out a single pot of tea for the whole afternoon too plain to be ignored, and I paid and we made our exit. Tilly popped off to visit the friend who had been out earlier, so I nipped into a hostelry called the Saracen’s Head for a swift couple of jars and then made my way to the theatre, feeling much better about life.

Yes, things were definitely looking up. I turned into the alley which led to the stage door … and saw a fire engine standing there.

The theatre was on fire!

I started to run up the alley. The firemen, three of them, were leaning on the back of their wagon, smoking cigarettes, which they’d hardly do in an emergency. I nodded to them as I squeezed past, and saw that a broad hosepipe was leading from the engine into the theatre, holding the door open.

Intrigued, I followed the pipe, which led up to the back of the stage, all the while becoming aware of a pumping noise getting louder and louder. I stepped out from the wings onto the apron and there, in all its glory, was the
Wontdetainia
, rocking back and forth as though cresting a mighty Atlantic swell. The hydraulic rams were operating at full capacity, thanks – it turned out – to the extra water pressure supplied by the fire brigade.

“Not bad, eh?” said a voice behind me. I walked to the front of the stage, shielding my hands against the lights, and peered down into the darkened stalls. A figure was standing there, a stocky, dapper little fellow, hands on hips, surveying his handiwork.

“Mister Karno,” I said. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I’m Arthur Dandoe,” I said.

“And what are you doing here, Arthur Dandoe?” Karno said, his tone ever so slightly mocking.

“Well, um, I’m to be on the ship,” I burbled. “I’m a super.”

“I’m sure you are,” the boss replied, turning on his immaculately shod heel. “I’m sure you are just as a-super as can a-be. Well, things to do, people to sack, on we go!” he cried, giving me a little wave as he went on his way.

“Mister Karno,” I heard myself shouting after him. He turned at the rear of the stalls and looked back at me. “I’m Arthur Dandoe. We met in Cambridge. I wrote. You said to come. I came.”

I stopped. The world stopped. Karno began to walk slowly back to me.

“Well, well, well!” he said. “Well, well, well, well, well. It’s the young man who was etten by the giant dinosaur, is it not?”

“That’s right, sir,” I said, my heart hammering.

“I said to come and you came,” he said. “And now you’re one of my supers, is that it? And what have you done for me so far, Arthur Dandoe?”

“Well, I … um, nothing, onstage, yet,” I twittered. “I’ve been here two w-weeks and the whole time I’ve been painting that.” I pointed at the good old
Wontdetainia
, lurching away on the stage.

“So tell me this, Arthur Dandoe,” Karno said, fixing me with a gimlet gaze. “Why did you come? Hmm? To be a painter?”

Only one thought came to me and I blurted out: “You said I had ‘it’!”

Karno grinned. “I did, didn’t I? I said you had ‘it’. I recall t’ conversation now. I don’t say that often, you know, and I’ll tell you another thing, when I do say it, I’m hardly ever wrong.”

He paused for a moment, turning something over in his head, it seemed to me.

“Well, now, if you’ve got ‘it’ we can’t waste you as a super, can we, or painting scenery? That’d be nothing short of criminal – or do you like it on t’ very bottom rung?”

“No, sir,” I said, hoping that was the right answer.

“Remember this, Arthur Dandoe. It’s up to you, it’s always up to you. No one else. It’s your responsibility. You must push yourself forward. Make yourself heard. Stick your head up above the crowd. You need to get to the next rung, then climb over whoever’s in front of you to get there. Push yourself forward.”

I put on a determined expression, which seemed appropriate, and nodded enthusiastically.

“Come and see me in t’ morning, ten sharp. We’ll see what we can do with you.”

“Thank you, Mister Karno.”

“Call me ‘Guv’nor’. Everyone does.” He gave a little wink, smiled and was about to head off again, but I must have been emboldened by his words, because I said: “Er, Guv’nor?”

“What now?”

“It’s just that … you have the fire engine’s pump connected up to your hydraulic rams there…”

“I have, and I’ve brought those lads all the way from Merryweathers of Long Acre to do it. What of it?”

“Well, last summer the fire brigade came to the college where I worked,” I said. “And connected up their pump to the college plumbing by mistake, and it was very powerful. Burst some of the pipes, blew one old don clean off the water closet.”

Karno smirked.

Old Mr Kirkham, it was, who’d ended up in First Court, soaked through, with his trousers round his ankles, looking for his spectacles.

“If that pipe doesn’t hold you’ll have an absolute tidal wave of water heading straight for the front rows.”

Karno scratched his chin. “Really?”

“I’m afraid so.”

For a moment I was afraid my warning had taken the wind out of his sails, but then the Guv’nor turned and winked at me.

“Well. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”

10

HIS BIG BREAK

I
will never forget the gasps of astonishment as the audience at the Paragon caught their first glimpse of the mighty
Wontdetainia
sailing serenely across the stage. Tilly and I looked down from on high at the upturned faces and eyes wide with amazement as the brass band played and the streamers spun down out of the sky.

The ingenuity of the folding panels was impressive enough, but once the ship reached the open sea and began its realistic rocking motion, the crowd burst into spontaneous applause. They nudged one another with glee and pointed, then, at the green faces of we supers hanging grimly to the rails in the throes of our all-too-realistic seasickness. They gasped and squealed at the ominous creaking and thumping from the hydraulics, and then all at once the over-worked pipes succumbed to the extra pressure and burst at the seams, gushing hundreds of gallons of icy cold water across the stage and into their laps.

People ran for their lives to the exits, and stood, dripping, out on the Mile End Road to the amazement of passers-by, cursing
the name of Fred Karno and shaking their fists up at the theatre building as though it was somehow to blame.

Despite this utter debacle, though, the Guv’nor strode in through the double doors of the Fun Factory the next morning just before ten, beaming all over his face, clutching the morning’s newspaper in his fist.

“See this, Alf?” he shouted up to Reeves, who was supervising some fresh scene building up in the roof space above our heads. “Front page!” He slapped the paper with the back of his hand and bustled towards his office, pleased as Punch, nodding greetings as he went. He saw me waiting for him outside the door and tossed the paper to me without breaking his busy little stride.

“See? You were right about that water pressure, then, lad. Be with you directly…”

He went in and I glanced over the report of the previous night’s mayhem. The writer made it sound like an unmitigated disaster, but the item covered very nearly a quarter of the front page and gave prominent and numerous mentions of the name of the show, and the ambitious and spectacular set, and the outrageous cost, and the name of the theatre, and the name of Mr Fred Karno.

While I’d been reading the paper a couple of other fellows had come over to Karno’s door. The older of the two – a tall, rangy chap, smartly turned out, with slickeddown hair – paused before knocking to indicate that the younger – a short, slightly built youth, also in his Sunday best – should wait outside to be called, then he marched straight in.

So much for me, I thought to myself.

The younger youth sat down opposite me and looked at me with a steady gaze, which I found unsettling, though I couldn’t quite have said why at first. I returned his look, as if to say: “What
are you looking at?” and before I could stop it and without either of us saying a word I found myself in a full-blown staring contest. I knew it, and he knew it, and I knew he knew it, and he knew I knew it.

So I stared and he stared, and he stared and I stared, and as I did I suddenly put my finger on what it was that was so unsettling about this youth’s level gaze. It was this. His eyes, the irises, that is, were a startling deep purple. This couldn’t be, could it, the same youth, that Sam Cohen, who had suffered that calamitous humiliation…? The thought was enough to make me break off looking at him, and his lip curled in a slight sneer of self-satisfaction, this boy, which made me colour in embarrassment and defeat.

I looked at my feet, so as not to have to look at him, this purple-eyed freak boy, and so found myself tuning into the conversation in Karno’s office.

“So how was America?” Karno was saying.

“It went very well, Guv’nor, they sure seemed to like us,” the tall slicker replied.

“No thought of staying out there, then?”

“Guv’nor!” came the reply, affecting to sound indignant, hurt at the very suggestion. “I’m your man, through and through.”

“Is that so, is that so indeed?” The Guv’nor sounding thoughtful.

“I’m not saying there weren’t offers, mind.”

“Oh-ho!”

“And good money too.”

“Oh-ho again! Better money than I’m paying you, is that what you’re saying?”

“The money’s not the important thing,” the slick dude claimed, unconvincingly to my eavesdropping ears, and to Karno’s too, it seemed.

“Don’t give me that bunk! The money’s always the important thing, Sydney. You know it, and I know it. So is that what this little social call is about, then? You after a little pay rise…?”

“No, Guv’nor…”

“Because, you know, I might have something in here for you, now I come to think of it…”

There was the sound of a cupboard door being opened, and Sydney the slicker protested at once.

“Guv’nor please! Put the big hat away! I’ve come to ask you about another matter entirely…”

I learned later that the Guv’nor had a novel way of dealing with requests for more money from his players. He’d bring out an oversized hat – there were two in his cupboard, an enormous bowler, I think, in the winter, and a vast straw boater for the summer months – to demonstrate what he thought of the claimant and his swollen head. Prop sarcasm, it was, and it usually had the desired effect, I’m told.

“Well then?” A low thump, which may have been the Guv’nor putting his feet up on his desk.

“It’s … it’s about poor Ronny Marston…”

My ears pricked up at mention of that name, my predecessor at the Bells’ house.

“I… Well, I blame myself, Guv’nor,” Sydney said, a little catch in his voice.

“Interesting,” Karno replied, with a little cough. “I blame you too.”

“Oh? Really? I see. Right-o…”

“You are the number one of a Fred Karno company, and everything that happens to that company is your responsibility. You got that?”

A reverent pause followed. Whatever had happened to this Ronny Marston, whose name only ever seemed to be mentioned with the word ‘poor’ preceding it?

“Fortunately the perfect remedy is at hand,” Sydney started off again, perking up.

“Oh?”

“Yes, my brother, Charlie. He’s waiting outside. He’s been with Wal Pink, and Casey’s, and he got good notices in
Sherlock Holmes
with Mr Saintsbury. He’s a quick study and he’d be a perfect fit, and I was thinking…?”

“That I might set him on?”

“Exactly…”

I glanced up at the purple-eyed boy opposite. He was holding his breath, hanging on every word, every nuance of the conversation inside.

“And if I do, you’ll pay no more mind to these other ‘offers’ you’ve had, is that it?” Karno’s voice was taking on a sarcastic and rather calculating tone.

“Guv’nor! I never said…”

“I heard what you never said. Heard it very well. Anyway, I’ve seen your boy, and he’s clever enough, but he’s too young…”

“He only looks young close to. With make-up and a wig he can play anything you like.”

I snorted derisively at this. The boy opposite stiffened and glared at me, a frown darkening his features, and I could sense him wondering, as plain as anything, whether I knew of his crushing night at Forester’s. I met his strange purple gaze and nodded, ever so slightly, and this time he was the one who coloured and looked at his feet.

“That’s as may be,” Karno was saying. “The plain fact is there’s no vacancy just now.”

“What about Ronny Marston’s place?”

“Filled!”

“Already?”

Footsteps approached the door, and I gathered that Karno’s visitor was being shown out. The brother and I both stared at the floor, as though we hadn’t heard anything of any interest whatsoever. The door opened.

“Yes, filled!” said Karno, gesturing flamboyantly in my direction, “by young Mr Dandoe here. Stand up, lad. Sydney, Arthur. Arthur, Sydney.”

The tall chap, Sydney and I shook hands. He glowered at me in a cool and unfriendly manner, and glanced over at his brother with a slight shake of the head and a tiny shrug.

“Pleased to meet you, Sydney,” I said.

“Syd,” he said, summoning up some politeness out of his disappointment. “Syd Chaplin. Come on, Charlie, let’s go.”

Now, it’s probably useless for me to pretend that you won’t have spotted the arrival just now of a key character into the story. I’ve kept him in the background as long as I can – after all, this is
my
story, not his, and his highly
selective
autobiography is available (one mention, that’s all I get, one measly, solitary little mention!) should you wish to plough through the thing. In case you have more sense, however, let me now take a moment to bring you up to date with the careers of the two Chaplin brothers, Sydney and Charlie.

They were half brothers, actually, with the same mother but different fathers. Charlie’s dad married their mother a few
months after Syd was born and gave the baby lad his surname, and Charlie himself came along four years later.

Charles Chaplin senior was a singer on the halls, of middle-ranking fame on either side of the Atlantic, who drank himself to death at thirty-seven. The boys’ mother, Hannah, was a singer too, but her career petered out and she scratched a living as a seamstress in between periods in the Lambeth workhouse, and, not to put too fine a point upon it, the Cane Hill Asylum.

Throughout their childhood, then, Syd, as the elder, was obliged to look out for young Charlie as they were bundled from one Poor Law school to another, and for their mother too. At sixteen he went to sea, taking a post on a mail boat to the Cape, first getting an advance on his wages which enabled Charlie and Hannah to take new lodgings in Kennington.

By the time Syd had completed a handful of voyages, young Charlie had begun a career on the stage, first as one of the clog-dancing act Eight Lancashire Lads (even though he was a proper Cockney sparrer), and then as a boy actor in straight plays. Syd decided that he too wanted to tread the boards, like his brother, and his father and mother.

Funnily enough, it was Charlie who gave Syd his first break. Charlie was appearing as a pageboy in a touring Sherlock Holmes play and talked the management into taking Syd on in the role of a foreign aristocrat called Count von Stahlberg.

When a second tour of the same show was mounted Charlie retained his role, but Syd’s went to someone else – most likely the manager wanted to hire a nephew or something – so he took another posting as an assistant steward on a Cape mail boat. On this trip he was persuaded to take part in a scratch entertainment, at which he did some comedy songs and a few impersonations,
and became the talk of the ship. I imagine that, much like I did at the college smoker, he felt the Power for the first time, and became intoxicated by it. After that he was determined to make a career in comedy, and nothing else would do.

Back in London once again, Syd abandoned his maritime career and managed to talk his way into the Wal Pink company, appearing in their briefly notorious romp
Repairs
. He was quite a hit in this messy house-fixing-up sketch, and was able to return the favour he owed Charlie, landing his younger brother the role of an incompetent plumber’s mate.