containing sketches of the various artists and a separate sheet enclosed in a glass-fronted panel, showing the times of each performance and the prices for various seats. Hundreds of pairs of feet clattered past each day, their steps echoing above the waves twenty feet below. When a performance was due, some of the feet stopped at the theatre and carried their owners inside, through the darkened auditorium or, in some cases, round backstage to the dressing room.
Today, the men’s dressing room was thick with steam as Wahoo, the Wonderful Wizard, bent over the ironing board, trying to press a crease into each leg of the black trousers that were part of his stage costume. The previous evening, Alfie Parks had spilled half his beer down them and Wahoo (known to his friends, family and fellow artists as Sydney) had been forced to sponge them down today to get rid of the smell and remove the stain.
‘You should be doing this,’ Sydney grumbled, sending a malevolent look towards the comedian who now sat in front of the large mirror, a glass of ale hidden on the shelf below, applying his make-up with an unsteady hand.
‘Stop moaning, Sydney,’ he replied. ‘Think yourself lucky I didn’t volunteer to do it. I’ve scorched more clothes than you’ve had hot dinners!’
Alfie Parks, the show’s comedian, was a tubby man with what he called a ‘dodgy ticker’ who, on stage, made himself appear more round than he was by means of a quilted stomach, which he wore concealed under his clothes. He wore shoes that were three sizes too large in the hope that this subtle combination hinted at ‘clown’ and encouraged the audience to find him humorous. He also wore a small black bowler hat and started every sentence of his patter with ‘I say, I say!’ His jokes were tried and true but the evening crowd were very tolerant and usually laughed in the right places. The matinee audiences, however, were always the least receptive to the show and this afternoon would be no different.
The small room had beige walls and along one of these there was a row of coat hooks on which the performers hung their clothes. Above the coat hooks there was a shelf for hats and wigs. Six chairs were lined up in front of the mirror, which stretched the length of the wall. The long counter beneath the mirror was crammed with make-up of all shapes, sizes and colours, along with a variety of old rags and flannels and pots of cheap grease for removing the make-up at the end of each performance.
Sydney put the iron down, inspected his newly creased trousers and was satisfied. There was a knock on the door and one of the Sunshine Dancers put her head round the door.
‘Can we borrow your iron? Ours is kaput . ’ She was tall with smooth dark hair and her face already glowed with scarlet lipstick, black-rimmed eyes and false eyelashes.
‘You can have it for ten minutes and mind you bring it back – and watch yourself. It’s hot.’ Sydney handed it over and asked, ‘What’s the house like?’
‘Not many. Mostly old fogeys but there’s a class of children booked, coming from Eastbourne on a charabanc. Don’t ask me why they’re coming here. They’ve got theatres in Eastbourne.’
Alfie grinned. ‘They haven’t got us!’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh yes! I forgot. We’re the best!’ She disappeared and her high-heeled shoes echoed in the passageway.
The Wonderful Wizard pulled on his newly pressed trousers with a grunt of satisfaction.
Alfie said, ‘They look good as new. Better, even.’
‘No thanks to you, chum!’
Alfie tried to remember the jokes that would make the kids laugh and those that would be too risqué and had to be omitted. He knew that if the punters complained, the manager would be laying down the law with a trowel.
Arturio Loreto arrived, carrying his cycle clips, which he tossed on to the make-up counter. He gave the other two men his usual grin.
‘Great goings-on at the Romilees!’ he said. ‘I wonder where
Today, the men’s dressing room was thick with steam as Wahoo, the Wonderful Wizard, bent over the ironing board, trying to press a crease into each leg of the black trousers that were part of his stage costume. The previous evening, Alfie Parks had spilled half his beer down them and Wahoo (known to his friends, family and fellow artists as Sydney) had been forced to sponge them down today to get rid of the smell and remove the stain.
‘You should be doing this,’ Sydney grumbled, sending a malevolent look towards the comedian who now sat in front of the large mirror, a glass of ale hidden on the shelf below, applying his make-up with an unsteady hand.
‘Stop moaning, Sydney,’ he replied. ‘Think yourself lucky I didn’t volunteer to do it. I’ve scorched more clothes than you’ve had hot dinners!’
Alfie Parks, the show’s comedian, was a tubby man with what he called a ‘dodgy ticker’ who, on stage, made himself appear more round than he was by means of a quilted stomach, which he wore concealed under his clothes. He wore shoes that were three sizes too large in the hope that this subtle combination hinted at ‘clown’ and encouraged the audience to find him humorous. He also wore a small black bowler hat and started every sentence of his patter with ‘I say, I say!’ His jokes were tried and true but the evening crowd were very tolerant and usually laughed in the right places. The matinee audiences, however, were always the least receptive to the show and this afternoon would be no different.
The small room had beige walls and along one of these there was a row of coat hooks on which the performers hung their clothes. Above the coat hooks there was a shelf for hats and wigs. Six chairs were lined up in front of the mirror, which stretched the length of the wall. The long counter beneath the mirror was crammed with make-up of all shapes, sizes and colours, along with a variety of old rags and flannels and pots of cheap grease for removing the make-up at the end of each performance.
Sydney put the iron down, inspected his newly creased trousers and was satisfied. There was a knock on the door and one of the Sunshine Dancers put her head round the door.
‘Can we borrow your iron? Ours is kaput . ’ She was tall with smooth dark hair and her face already glowed with scarlet lipstick, black-rimmed eyes and false eyelashes.
‘You can have it for ten minutes and mind you bring it back – and watch yourself. It’s hot.’ Sydney handed it over and asked, ‘What’s the house like?’
‘Not many. Mostly old fogeys but there’s a class of children booked, coming from Eastbourne on a charabanc. Don’t ask me why they’re coming here. They’ve got theatres in Eastbourne.’
Alfie grinned. ‘They haven’t got us!’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh yes! I forgot. We’re the best!’ She disappeared and her high-heeled shoes echoed in the passageway.
The Wonderful Wizard pulled on his newly pressed trousers with a grunt of satisfaction.
Alfie said, ‘They look good as new. Better, even.’
‘No thanks to you, chum!’
Alfie tried to remember the jokes that would make the kids laugh and those that would be too risqué and had to be omitted. He knew that if the punters complained, the manager would be laying down the law with a trowel.
Arturio Loreto arrived, carrying his cycle clips, which he tossed on to the make-up counter. He gave the other two men his usual grin.
‘Great goings-on at the Romilees!’ he said. ‘I wonder where
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