Page 31 of The Songbird of Wychwood

CHAPTER 21

GEORGE

Mr. Grayson had a case of the morbs, and so, during the Saturday show he was not his cocky, crowd-pleasing self at all. If you work in a theater, even when you’re down in the dumps, every single one of us knows to paste on a fake smile and carry on. No punter would pay good coin to watch a misery-guts on stage. But Mr. Grayson was not right at all. For a start, he was on the sauce; Eloise had smelled the foul vapors of alcohol mixed with shag tobacco on his breath when he spoke to her, then she told me. I sent a worried glance to our stage manager, Arthur. He bit the bullet and spoke to Mr. Grayson, suggesting that he could take over the compering tonight. But Grayson wouldn’t have it.

“Just you remember who pays your wages, Formby. I could run this place with my bloody eyes closed and don’t you forget it,” he’d slurred. The orchestra struck up their introduction music and then Mr. Grayson stepped on stage with a face like a wet weekend, and swayed like he was standing on the prow of a ship, before finally introducing the first act.

Mr. Grayson’s black mood seemed to spread through all performers like a disease. We theater folk are a superstitious lot! A slow burning beeswax candle that we called a ghost light was always lit on stage after hours because a dark theater was bad luck. Something as simple as hearing a whistle behind the scenes would put the fear into an actor. One of the acts, a comedian named Ollie O’Brien was so annoyed about Mr. Grayson’s tardy behaviour that he laid into him back stage, accusing Mr. Grayson of bringing the evil eye upon the theater. The orchestra had to play louder to cover up their roaring.

When Tommy Pickles, the juggler, was doing his act he dropped his balls, and later Sally Swift, the plate spinner, broke a plate—something I’d never seen from a professional spinner before. Eloise was then sent on early and she had to improvise for an extra minute because Mr. Grayson’s lack of showmanship put the timings of the whole show out of kilter. I pulled things together by doing my character Miss Fortune, using one of the French showgirls Edith in the act as a customer who wanted her fortune told. I knew the fellows would appreciate an encore from one of the showgirls, and the skit went down well. Dressed as Miss Fortune in my shawls and head scarf I’d looked into the crystal ball and sang of Edith’s fantastical future, before Miss Fortune’s false eye popped out and we chased it around the stage together to much laughter. I was back on later in the night to close the show with my saucy aristocrat Lord Dickey.

After the show I joined Eloise, her Mari, and another dancer Judy Hoops, who, you guessed it, danced with hoops! We walked through the rainy streets to The Sun Tavern in Covent Garden in order to drown our sorrows. A few of the other acts sauntered in too. Scotsman Tommy Pickles was furious about dropping his balls, and the Irish comedian, O’Brien sat with us, his shoulders hunched as he seethed resentfully over his pint of stout.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I tells ya, in all my years playin’ at the Middlesex I ain’t never seen Grayson behave like such a selfish wee shite.”

“Aye. What the hell was eatin’ at him? He looked like somethin’ crawled up his arse an’ died,” Scotsman Tommy agreed.

“I was going to give him the naggin of whisky I’ve got in my dressing room if he’d have let me take over as compere to liven the place up,” Judy said.

‘You’ve got a naggin of whiskey and ye didnea tell me!” Tommy said in outrage.

“I wish you had given it to ‘im,” Mari piped up, “If I wanted to be déprimée…how you say…depressed…yes? I would have stayed in La Rochelle wiz mah crazy mozer.”

We all laughed.

“I’ll drink to that!” Eloise agreed.

“At least the punters seemed to have had a good night,” I added brightly, trying to lighten the mood. “Mr. Myrna said the takings are up.”

Mr. Cyril Myrna was all about the money. He dealt with the box office takings, making tallies and sorting out the wages before giving the remainder to Mr. Grayson to put in the safe. It baffled me that even though everyone backstage had a caught the dark mood and had a bad night, the punters were still packed in like sardines and enjoyed themselves.

“Good. What the punters don’t know can’t hurt ‘em,” Eloise said. “I’d just love to know why Grayson was in such a stinker.”

I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something was going on with Mr. Grayson, and I was sure it had to do with me. “We’d best keep our heads down and hope the cloud soon passes,” I said, and raised my glass for a toast,

“Up your bum!” I called, and my comrades parroted it. After tossing back our drinks we all started to laugh. Finally, the atmosphere began to shift.

“Another round?” O’Brien suggested.

****

When I stepped through the doorway of Browns Hotel on Tuesday my eyes searched the crowd of well-to-do patrons. Finally, across the foyer, I found Percy. His brilliant green eyes shone, and the same wide puppyish smile lit up his face. My heart banged against my ribcage with the nervous joy of seeing him again. I’d had a despondent few days after the peculiar show on Saturday night, and I figured that if Grayson hadn’t come out of his maudlin mood by tomorrow, I’d go to his office and we’d have it out!

I longed to wrap Percy in my arms, but that wasn't done, not here, not ever in public. And so I moved off from the entrance, my long strides devouring the space that parted us. As I walked across the ever-so-fancy foyer I decided a hearty handshake was in order, like we were just old chums.

“Ah Percy, well met, my friend, it's so good to see you,” I said enthusiastically in Lord Dickey’s cultured voice, as I reach out gripping his hand and forearm with both of my hands. Our gazes locked and my innards fluttered with a burst of pleasure. How could I have forgotten the flecks of gold in his green eyes, and how adorable he looked when his cheeks pinkened with desire?

“George, my old friend. I’m so pleased you could meet with me today. Come, I’ve reserved a table in the restaurant, my treat!” I was glad that Percy understood the game and could improvise. But the restaurant reservation, this was a curious surprise. I’d imagined we’d take a table in the tea room and have a cuppa and a natter, maybe enjoy sandwiches or a Chelsea bun? But the restaurant at Browns was very la-de-dah! I was glad I’d worn the suit and bowler hat I used for my Lord Dickey costume as it made me look like I fitted right in!

The maître-de took us to a private booth at the rear of the restaurant and I was pleased that we’d missed the lunchtime rush.

“Would you mind if I ordered for you?” Percy asked, and as this was his treat I said “Please do!”

Percy ordered a smoked salmon starter, and then venison for main, but we agreed to drink only cordial with our meal.

“I think I’ll need to be carried home after eating all of this!” I said after the waiter left the plate of sliced roasted venison in front of me with a selection of vegetables.

“You and me both!” Percy beamed. “I forgot that they served such a large cut. Luckily, I don’t have to rush back to the office.” Our eyes met and we shared such looks of such fondness I was sure all in the restaurant knew what we were. As I had no other plans either we took our time with the large luncheon. During the meal we engaged in lively conversation about books and poetry. Percy told me about his university where he studied English. Needing to be upfront from the get-go, I admitted that I’d not had a proper, formal education.