thought Ralph, quite magnificent.
‘Next week,’ she announced, ‘we are presenting a play by Terence Rattigan entitled French Without Tears. This charming, diverting and amusing romantic comedy is guaranteed to give an evening of pleasure in the theatre for all the family, so if you have enjoyed tonight, which I’m sure you have judging by the volume of your applause, do come again next week. We shall be here, same time, twice nightly, same place, same company in a variety of roles, so until then,’ she continued, ‘we all wish you goodnight and God bless.’
The Billy Dixon Trio in the pit began to play the introductory notes of ‘God save the King’ and four hundred and fifty seats slammed noisily back as everyone stood for the National Anthem.
As soon as it had finished the curtain came down and the theatre was buzzing with chatter. Down in the pit the three musicians had disappeared with their usual speed. Ralph stayed leaning over the railing, drinking in the red, cream and gilt of the Edwardian theatre, the nymphs and shepherdesses on the ceiling, the chandeliers, the endless rows of shabby red velvet-covered chairs. He was conscious that it might be his last Friday night here if he couldn’t find a job.
‘Seek and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you,’ he had heard the Reverend Collins saying in his head before the curtain rose, and he had made up his mind there and then to knock on one of those doors that night while he had some courage left.
He drew away from the railing and leapt up the steps to the swing doorway. Pausing for a moment he took a last glance back down to the stage now hidden by an immense red and gold curtain.
‘One night,’ he muttered with determination, ‘one night I’ll be playing here.’ And he pushed the doors open and headed for the next flight of stairs.
Coming down into the foyer, the wide carpeted stairs were jammed with people pushing their way out into the night. Regular Friday nighters were waving to each other over the heads of others. Drifting from the open doors and up the stairway was a pea-souper fog which was now swathing itself around them.
The commissionaire in his maroon uniform covered in tarnished gold braid was attempting to stand firm amongst the melee of pushing, chatting theatre-goers. Ralph nodded at him, thinking that after weeks of going to the theatre every Friday, the man would recognise him but he looked straight through him.
Ralph stood by the open door where some street lights still shone on the glass, and glanced at his reflection. Surveying his unruly coarse brown hair springing upwards from the short back and sides his father had forced him to have, he looked every inch a working class lad. He fiddled around with his scarf, attempting to make it look like a cravat but it looked like what it was, an ordinary khaki knitted scarf. He couldn’t take it off because he didn’t have a collar on his shirt. ‘Mind over matter,’ he muttered to himself.
He manoeuvred his way down the steps and turned round the corner, heading up through the fog in the street. He hesitated at the next corner, spat copiously into his hands and then smoothed back his hair with as much muster as he could. Then he buttoned up his jacket, tucked his scarf neatly in and prayed his hair wouldn’t suddenly spring up again in Stan Laurel fashion.
He peered round the corner. The stage door was open. He threw his shoulders back and stood to his full height. Shaking with a mixture of excitement and nerves he made his way towards it. Above the stage door a bright light burned a sulphurous yellow in the fog. Ralph blinked. Laughter was coming from inside. He hovered. He didn’t want to appear a stage-door johnny, neither did he want to appear a sinister figure in the mist.
He stepped back quickly. Three of the women who had been in Ladies in Retirement came stumbling out of the back door laughing. He was about to slip in when he heard the familiar male tones of Basil Duke.
‘No idea,’ he heard him saying. ‘I just hope it’s a play set in the winter. If I have to wear summer clothes again in this weather!’
‘I’m going to die next week,’ said a young female voice.
‘You’ve got your love to keep you warm,’ sang Ralph’s hero.
‘My love will be as cold as me. At least he can wear a blazer during the performance. I’ll have to keep a shawl in the wings.’
He heard an elderly voice saying goodnight.
‘’Night, Wilfred,’ said Basil Duke.
‘’Night,’ added a young female voice whom Ralph recognised as the maid’s. And then they were in the doorway pulling their coats up against the cold and Ralph was aware of a strong smell of face powder.
‘Oh my goodness, what a pea-souper!’ the young actress exclaimed.
She had shoulder-length pitch black hair and was slim and lovely, Geraldine Maclaren.
To Ralph’s surprise, Basil Duke was shorter than he appeared on stage. Peering at him through the mist, Ralph still couldn’t decide whether he was in his twenties or thirties. He gazed at the actor’s thick dark hair now slicked back so smoothly as to make Ralph sick with envy.
‘I’ll walk you home, darling,’ Mr Duke said.
‘No. Honestly. I’ll be fine. I know the route with my eyes shut.’
He stared out at the fog. ‘You won’t have to shut them in this.’
‘See you tomorrow morning then for the run.’
‘And cuts,’ he reminded her.
‘Oh, don’t. A run through and three shows! It’s madness!’
‘We’ll survive,’ he said cordially. ‘We always do.’
To Ralph’s amazement they gave each other a kiss. He felt embarrassed to see such intimacy at close quarters. As soon as they had gone he stepped, blinking, into the light.
An elderly man with a thick shock of white hair was sitting in a wooden cubicle reading a newspaper and sipping tea from a large stained mug. Behind him were rows of tiny pigeonholes, with letters painted roughly beneath them. Door keys hung on hooks beside them on a board with numbers on it.
Ralph stood tongue-tied. The man raised his head and glared at him. ‘I’m afraid they’ve all gone, sonny,’ he remarked in the local Hertfordshire accent. ‘You’re too late, best come back tomorrer night. Early.’
‘But I’ve been waiting outside for some time,’ said Ralph.
‘Oh?’ The man smiled at him kindly. ‘Too shy to ask, that it? Leave your autograph book here and I can ask the cast to sign it for you, so’s you can pick it up later.’
‘But I don’t want autographs,’ Ralph blurted out.
‘Well, what do you want?’ asked the man suddenly alert.
‘A job. I mean, I want to work here.’
The man scrutinised his face and frowned. And then his eyes suddenly lit up. ‘You want to sign up for the strike!’
‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ Ralph said perplexed. ‘I don’t want to strike. I want to work.’
The man threw back his head and laughed. ‘Set
