Page 2 of The Songbird of Wychwood

It takes a lot of work to put on a play, but once the first night’s done muscle memory takes over and it’s a doddle. Putting on music hall show is a different kind of animal. We have comedians, ventriloquists, aerial acts, jugglers, illusionists, singers, and dancers. We have to keep the show fresh so our punters come back time and time again. Our stage manager Arthur Formby says it’s like conducting chaos.

With all of the lifting and carrying I did each day helping around the theater, by eighteen, I was starting to put on a little muscle. I’d grown up into a tall, athletic young man. I had mousy brown wavy hair and golden-brown eyes, just like my mum.

I recall the day I got my break as if it was yesterday. Arthur had a strange twinkle in his eyes when he told me that Mr. Grayson wanted to see me in his office. I was worried cos that was never a good thing. I wracked my brain, wondering what I could have done wrong. When Violette had passed, Grayson’s attitude towards me changed. He became colder, and these past few years he’d hardened somewhat towards me. I hated Grayson’s office. It was as messy as a rubbish heap and stank of stale old man and tobacco. The walls used to be white at one time, but Grayson seemed to let the upkeep of the whole theater go when he didn’t have my ma to impress. Now, the office walls had a sickly yellow tobacco stain and the lead paint was bubbling and peeling in places. Mr. Grayson spent more and more time locked in his office these days, and I assumed he was planning tours for his travelling acts and dealing with finding new blood for our show. Apparently, Mr. Grayson had a wife, two kiddies, and a nice house just outside of town, but you wouldn’t think it as he was always out and about. I found the office door was open and so I walked in to see him sitting behind his messy desk “You asked to see me boss,” I said. Mr. Grayson glanced up from his ledger.

“I’ve had a grand idea, lad. Just a tick,” Grayson said holding his hand up to make me wait until he’d finished writing. I stood quietly before his desk curious to hear what this idea was. The desk was a catastrophe, loaded with paperwork, invoices, receipts, and several thick ledgers. His secretary had walked out a few months ago and so far, there was no replacement. It was a regular occurrence but I could understand why secretaries didn’t want to work in close quarters with a greasy old cove like Alfred Grayson!

When my boss put his pen down and looked up he said “Georgie,” with fake affection. I hated it when anyone called me Georgie. ‘Mon petit Georgie’ that was what mum used to call me, and so hearing that name reminded me that she wasn’t here anymore. It made me miss her something awful. I gritted my teeth and listened to my boss.

He sat back in his chair and considered me with dangerous eyes. “I bet you don’t think anyone hears you when you’re standing in the wings singing along with the acts.” I felt heat rise to blush my cheeks. I was so embarrassed that I’d been called to Mr. Grayson’s office for this!

“I bet you don’t think anyone hears you playing that old piano in your room, neither. I do. I see, and hear everything that goes on in this theater, my lad!”

I was mortified and my eyes fell to try and discern the pattern that was still faintly visible on the old worn carpet beneath my feet.

“Don’t be shy, boy! You’ve got quite the singing voice,” Grayson added with condescending amusement. “And you can’t be doing odds and sods around the theater all your life. It’s about time you got your act together.”

I didn’t understand. Was I finally out on my ear? “P…pardon?” I said, shocked and a little terrified of what he would say next.

“The stage, boy, the stage!”

Oh! I’d longed to be a performer on the stage, but I knew which side my bread was buttered, and I’d worried that if I got on Mr. Grayson’s nerves by asking to perform, he might finally kick me out. And so, I was dumbstruck by what he said next.

“I’ll give you a trial, let’s say a week, you go on as a warm-up act and sing something pretty to get the punters in the mood. I’ll pay you an extra shilling per night. How does that sound?”

I was currently on a three bob a week for being a jack-of-all-trades, and of course, I was the night watchman too!

“Yes, yes, thank you Mr. Grayson…thank you for the opportunity. I won’t let you down, sir!” I stuttered with delight. I walked out of his office feeling like I was ten foot tall.

And so, I started my time as a music hall performer by singing a few popular songs each night as filler between the main star attractions. The reception I got was muted at first, but good enough that Grayson let me keep it going. And I did.

I’d done the warm up spots, singing other people’s songs, for two-years before I got bored and finally decided on a new direction. Those two-years were my schooling, and now I was ready to bloom. For my new act I’d created characters, and matched them with songs that I wrote myself. I’d always been told I could pass for a girl so for my first turn I was dressed like a Catholic nun character I called Sister John Thomas. I began by walking on stage in a nun’s costume. I stood in the middle of the stage, blessed myself, and opened a hymn book. The audience appeared shocked and confused. And to my amusement, some even started booing. Then, I began belting out a well-known song, Oh, How the Money Rolls in, with a few changes to the lyrics I’d penned myself.

My brother’s a rent boy in Chelsea

My mother’s a tart in the Strand

My father sells his arsehole

Up the Elephant and Castle

And charges just tu’ppence a hand

My uncle’s a vicar in Stepney

Saving all the young girls from sin

He’ll sell you absolution for a shilling

And oh, how the money rolls in, rolls in,

And oh, how the money rolls in!

The punters sang along and laughed so hard at my vulgar lyrics that they nearly brought the roof down. That night when I came off stage Mr. Grayson looked at me all funny, like there were stars in his eyes.

“I think you’ve found your calling Sister,” he joked as he clapped me on the back, and he was right. Finally, I was doing what I was supposed to do.

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