your way.’
Boy, this is going to be a marvellous evening, I think to myself as I slap down the complimentary tickets. I have not stood such a good chance of enjoying myself since we ran out of candles during the power strike.
Inside the theatre there are less people than at a meeting of Jack the Ripper’s fan club and Rosie starts moaning again before I have bought the programmes.
‘I can’t stand it,’ she says. ‘I just can’t stand it.’
‘Oh, look,’ says Mum, ‘what a shame–Terry Grimley is “indisposed”.’
‘Thank God,’ says Rosie, nastily.
‘Still, there’s always Renato and his Little Squeaking Friends, Mum,’ I say cheerfully. How right I am!
The orchestra sound as if they were introduced to each other five minutes before they started playing the National Anthem and the opening number, ‘Hoverton, Hoverton, It’s not a Bovver-town!’–at least I think that is what they are singing–could be one of the most forgettable tunes written in the last twenty years. The chorus girls look like rotarians in drag and their make-up could have been put on by a bloke responsible for painting puppets. All in all, the production lives down to my worst fears and I dare not look at Rosie.
The opening number gives way–maybe surrenders would be a better word–to one of the lousiest ventriloquists I have ever seen. The patter is so bad that the dummy must have written it and the ventriloquist moves his lips more than a short-sighted lodger trying to spit out his landlady’s dentures. After that comes a Scottish comedian who does imitations of Andy Stewart doing imitations of Harry Lauder, and two child tap dancers who make up in clumsiness what they lack in skill.
‘How much longer to the interval?’ whispers Rosie. ‘I can’t take much more.’
‘After the bats,’ I tell her. ‘They’re on next.’ She shudders and I sit back as a decrepit looking geezer wearing a black cloak and false eye teeth–at least, I imagine they are false–comes out onto the stage and spreads his arms wide to receive the non-existent applause. He waits hopefully for a few seconds and then waves a hand towards the wings. From the other side of the stage one of the chorus girls teeters out holding a large cage at arm’s length. I can sympathise with her distaste because when Renato whips off the cover I can see what appears to be half a dozen broken black umbrellas hanging in an ugly cluster. My reaction is not an isolated one because a combined exclamation of disgust is the biggest noise produced by the audience the whole evening.
‘Ooh! I don’t fancy that!’ says Rosie.
‘Imagine one of those in your hair,’ says Mum. I remember her words later.
The chorus girl gingerly inserts her hand into the cage and then withdraws it sharply.
‘It bit her,’ gasps Mum.
‘I’m getting out,’ says Rosie.
‘Don’t be daft,’ says Dad. ‘They’re just trying to build up the suspense. I remember once, at the Finsbury Empire–’
‘Shut up, Dad.’
Renato moves forward swiftly and elbows his unfortunate assistant aside before plunging his mitt into the cage. More kerfuffle and one of the bats is drawn into the open. The audience sucks in its breath. Renato holds up the bat and produces what appears to be a lump of sugar from inside his robe. His miserable assistant is made to hold the bat by the tip of its wings and Renato advances to the footlights. Like a kid showing off the first tooth it loses, he flashes the sugar at the audience between finger and thumb and places it between his lips. The girl gratefully releases the bat which circles a couple of times and then swoops down to alight on the area of Renato’s mouth.
‘I’m going to be sick,’ says Rosie.
The sugar disappears and the bat takes off and zooms into the wings. I do not think it should do this unless Renato gets through an awful lot of bats in his act. Certainly, the Maestro’s face clouds over for a second as he gazes after his little squeaking friend.
‘He swallowed it,’ says Dad firmly.
‘Don’t be silly, dear. It flew off the stage.’
‘Not the bat, you stupid old bag. The piece of sugar.’
‘I’m going to be sick,’ says Rosie.
‘There it is,’ says Mum.
High above our heads the errant bat is circling the theatre, presumably looking for some means of getting out. I know just how it feels.
‘I hope it hasn’t been fed recently,’ says Mum.
‘Do you mind!’ says Dad. ‘That kind of talk isn’t nice.’
‘Having your hair messed up isn’t nice either,’ scolds Mum. ‘I had this done special.’ There is no doubt that Mum’s bonce does resemble petrified meringue.
‘Oh, no!’ breathes Rosie. ‘What’s he going to do now?’
Renato is filling his cake-hole with lumps of sugar and the beginnings of a drum roll tell us that the act is approaching its climax. The unwilling assistant takes the remaining bats across the stage in their cage and Renato advances to the footlights.
‘I don’t want to watch,’ Rosie buries her face in her hands. I glance at Mum whose eyes are wider than serving hatches. Dad is looking up at the ceiling. This kind of thing is probably very old hat after the Finsbury Empire. The drum roll reaches a crescendo and the girl on the stage gingerly releases the catch on the cage and withdraws her hand swiftly. Nothing happens. She waits for a moment and gives the cage a shake. Still nothing happens. Beginning to panic, she turns the cage on its side and shakes it viciously until, like sticky pastry, the bats begin to peel away.
After that things happen fast. A stream of bats make for Renato while one stays behind to menace his assistant. She screams, drops the cage and runs from the stage. Maybe this upsets the rest of the bats. They descend on Renato’s cake-hole like wasps on a squashed plum. There is an exclamation of pain that carries beyond the back row of the upper circle and Renato reels sideways, clapping his hand to his mouth and spraying the first three rows of the stalls with lumps of sugar. Obviously one of his little friends has taken the dead needle with him.
The bats swoop down into the audience like low flying aircraft and the next thing I know, Mum has one in her hair. I have heard some noises in my time but the sounds coming from Mum cap everything.
‘Ooooeeeooww!’ she shrieks. ‘Get it out! Get it out!’ The bat is squeaking and flapping away fit to burst and I see its evil little rat face and those teeth. Teeth! By the cringe, they are like something out of a horror comic. Around us the audience is in uproar and Renato is jumping off the edge of the stage. I tear my jacket off and throw it over Mum’s head. I have no intention of touching the bat with my bare hands. I close my hands around the disgusting quivering body–the bat’s I mean–and consider squeezing the life out of it. I don’t have to make the decision because Renato pushes me aside and whips off the jacket.
‘You are a madman!?’ he hisses. ‘You want to destroy me my little friend. See? She is frightened.’
‘What about my old woman?’ explodes Dad. ‘She’s just had her
