Keep on Dancing, page 6
‘Lavender Lady?’ she murmured, quietly chuckling. She had given the famous effigy a new name without thinking. Well, in her unreal and very private terrain, that’s what she would be called.
Allowing herself the pleasure of fantasizing, she held the vision of herself on stage with the rest of the cast, looking out on an audience as they stood cheering and clapping as the cast took a bow. It was the sound of the conductor’s voice and the intruding ‘ding’ of the stop bell which brought her back very sharply from that realm. She had arrived in Stratford, E15.
As she stepped down on to the pavement, sudden waves of trepidation rose up in her. Thinking about this venture, as she had been for days, was a lot simpler than seeing it through. She wished now that she’d asked Shirley to come with her, and was in two minds as to whether to turn back. She thought about Tommy and what he would say. His words leaped into her mind – close your eyes and think of Wapping. She found herself doing just that, replacing the word Wapping with ‘the stage’.
When she arrived at the Theatre Royal she was somewhat relieved to find that, except for the small stage door, the place was in darkness and every other door was shut. She would no longer have to ignore that tiny but persistent feeling in her gut telling her to run. The burning desire to put her words into action had been curtailed by fate. She could return home with the same pride with which she had left.
Not believing that the stage door would be unlocked, she gave it a casual push with her foot and was surprised to find that she had been wrong. She was even more surprised to see an old man in the small, dimly lit area to the side of the stage. He was replacing a large set of keys on one of the many hooks on a square wooden board fixed to the wall. Glancing suspiciously at her, he sniffed and removed a different set of keys. ‘If you’ve come to collect something you left behind, you’re unlucky. I’m just leaving. You’ll have to wait till your next session.’
‘Who said I was ’ere to collect anything?’ Rosie took an instant liking to the old caretaker. He was play-acting. She had met droll Jewish men like him before.
‘So what do you want?’ He looked at her with half-closed eyes. ‘If it’s a handout, you’ve come to the wrong place. We’re the beggars, not the angels.’
She was right. He was one of a dying breed. ‘What kind of a theatre is this, anyway? It’s as dead as a bloody doornail.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ He ordered her away from the door with a wave of his hand. ‘I would like to lock up and go home for my supper, if that’s all right?’ He slipped his overcoat off a hanger, gripped the sleeve-end of his jacket and pushed his arm into the soft, worn lining.
‘Do what yer like, it’s nothing to me. I came to see the organ-grinder, not the monkey. I want to join the classes. I’m a dancer. Mind you, now that I’ve seen the place… not that brilliant, is it? I’m not so sure I’d wanna come ’ere and learn how to dance professionally.’
He raised one eyebrow higher than Rosie had ever seen anyone do before – it was his party trick, or one of them. She tried to suppress her laughter but he was on to her, and raised both eyebrows and then spun his eyeballs. ‘So you want to be a star? Well you’ve come on the wrong night. Fridays is when that lot are here, worse luck.’
‘Mad.’ She tried again not to show her amusement but her chuckle gave her away. ‘You’ve got bats in the belfry,’ she grinned, using another of her gran’s sayings.
‘I’m very good on faces,’ he said offhandedly. ‘If this place gets burgled tonight, I’ll turn you in. What’s your name?’
‘What’s your’n?’
‘Mr Simons.’ He pushed his expressionless face forward and waited.
‘Rosie.’ She looked at his shirt under his jacket and overcoat. ‘That’s a bit bright, innit? Orange?’
‘One hundred per cent silk. One of the actors left it behind. A poof. Come on, I’ll walk you back to the main road. I wasn’t gonna go that way but…’ He shrugged. ‘You’ve put me on the spot. I wouldn’t sleep knowing that you might have had your throat slit.’
‘What way was you gonna go then?’
‘Through the backstreets. To the old music hall. The Grand Star.’ He bent his arm and silently instructed her to take it, as if he had known her for years.
‘Never heard of it,’ she said, slipping her arm into his. ‘Must be a dump.’
‘Did I say it wasn’t? Mind you… it was a beautiful place years back. My parents used to take me there as a boy. So I’m going back quite a few years.’ Trying to walk in time with his long, slow gait, Rosie looked down at his large feet that were clad in very old but polished shoes. Casting a discreet eye over him, she could see that he was a man who took pride in his appearance, and it reminded her of Harriet whose motto had been and still was, ‘Make the best of what you have’. With her gran it was brass and wood that had to be cared for and polished until it shone. With Mr Simons it was his attire – his outmoded suit was clean and well pressed and his overcoat had obviously been well cared for over many years.
‘They finally shut down the Star in nineteen thirty-nine, more’s the pity. We had variety acts, jugglers, ventriloquists, wonderful singers… and we put on some very good plays. They came from all over London, places you wouldn’t believe. People with plenty of money… and those who didn’t have a sixpenny bit left at the end of a working week. They all came to the Star. The Star of David, as it’s known to some of us.’
‘Well, I’ll come with you then. See if it’s as good as you say it is.’
‘If you don’t mind flea bites… I think I’ve got the rats under control now, so your feet should be OK. We have to go up this way.’ He guided her to the right, in the manner of a true gentleman.
‘Bit dark, innit?’
‘I didn’t ask you to come.’
‘I never said you did. Why you going there, anyway?’
‘Because I am the caretaker of that place, too. I’ve been looking after it since the day my father died. He was a wonderful caretaker. The best. How could I let it go to rack and ruin after all the trouble he took? The place reeks of cat’s piss, it’s true. I don’t know how the little bastards get in. But I’ll tell you something… the boiler in the Star is better than the one in the Royal. I’m telling you – I’ve kept it as my father left it. There’s not a dead light bulb in the place. Empty sockets, sure… but not so many.’ The old man’s voice was full of pride.
‘And I’ll tell you something else, the Tannoy still works like a dream, and there are two separate toilets for the gents and the ladies. Two dressing rooms and a telephone – antiquated, true – but it still works.’
‘Mr Simons… do you ever stop talking?’
‘Excuse me for breathing.’ He half smiled at her insolence. ‘How come you’re interested in the theatre? I would have thought the dance halls were more your age group.’
‘I’m not that int’rested.’
‘No? So you often wander around the backstreets at night then?’ He brushed a finger across her black armband. ‘Who is this for?’
‘My brother.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that. How old?’
‘Thirty-one.’
‘Children?’
‘No. He wasn’t married. Engaged twice, but didn’t wanna leave us. Had to in the end, though, didn’t he,’ she said, her voice fading to silence.
‘When?’
‘How comes they never cut the phone off, then?’ she said, ending that line of conversation.
‘You have to know people in the right places.’ He tapped the side of his hooked nose. ‘I’ve friends at the electricity board and the telephone exchange. It’s the next turning on the left. Star Passage.’
Turning into the cobbled passageway, Rosie felt as if she had stepped back in time. ‘Pity you ’aven’t got a friendly road sweeper an’ all. Look at it.’ She kicked away a small empty milk carton from a vending machine.
‘Not many come down here now.’ He splayed a hand and waved it at the boarded windows of the terraced houses. ‘They’ve been like that for years. It’s a disgrace.’ He took her by the arm and steered her across the narrow street. ‘OK. Close your eyes. You can grab my jacket to steady yourself. Just a few more paces and we’re there.’
‘I must be bloody mad,’ she said, chuckling. ‘Lamb to the slaughter or what? You could be a Jack the Ripper.’
‘You ready?’
‘Yeah, go on, get on with it.’
‘OK. Now you can look.’
With her eyes open, Rosie slowly raised her head, hardly able to believe the spectacle before her. There, wedged between an umbrella factory and a ladies’ fashion wholesalers, stood the Grand Star Theatre, filthy with years of dirt that covered its Victorian facade. Allowing her eyes to roam from the marble step up to the wrought-iron brackets just below the rooftop, she took a deep breath, feeling as if she really had slipped back into the last century.
‘That old lamppost used to be gas, you know. But… like all the others they converted, that too will go, you’ll see. Replaced with a bloody concrete eyesore.’ Rosie could hear the old boy rambling on about progress and stupidity, but her mind was elsewhere as she gazed at the old-fashioned street lamp, dirty paper swirling around it. She was visualizing the ghosts of the past. Courting couples meeting under the lamplight before going in to see a show.
‘The Grand Star,’ he murmured, ‘one of our best theatres in the East End.’
Rosie looked up at the awning between the wrought-iron brackets and took in the faded, artistic hand-painted sign – Grand Star Yiddish Theatre.
‘Was it always a Jewish music hall, Mr Simons?’
‘The name’s Larry. From nineteen eleven until nineteen thirty-nine. Before that, it was a heap of shit. The Hagars and Ishmaels took it on and did a wonderful restoration job. Of course,’ he shrugged matter-of-factly, ‘the blackshirts put an end to all of that.’
‘And it’s been closed all this time?’
‘More or less.’
‘What d’yer mean, more or less? Either it ’as or it ’asn’t?’
Larry raised an eyebrow at her. ‘What difference does it make?’
‘None.’ Rosie used the same droll tone that he did.
‘I suppose you want to see inside?’
‘Of course I wanna see inside. What d’you expect?’
‘I don’t even know why I asked,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘I’ve got a granddaughter… and if you weren’t such a goy, I would have said my son had been casting his seeds. Sarah is just as bossy as you are. Bossy and a bloody know-all – with a big mouth.’
‘My gran’s always saying I must ’ave a bit of Jewish blood in me. Reckons they found me in the street, in a cardboard box that the Germans dropped just before the war; they couldn’t tell the difference between a bomb and a baby.’
‘Your gran sounds like a very charming woman.’ He pushed the key into the lock of a small door next to the main entrance into the theatre. ‘Don’t expect red velvet and gold paint. It’s there… but covered in dust and grime and full of moth-holes and mouse droppings.’
Stepping into the narrow entrance, Rosie felt her heart quicken; a surge of excitement rushed through her and she wasn’t sure why. It was, after all, a run-down, disused fleapit. ‘Bloody hell, Larry – it’s pitch-dark.’
‘Of course it’s pitch-dark. Wait there and don’t move until I tell you to.’ He pulled a small torch from his pocket and shone a light at a set of switches, flicking two of them down and bringing alive a solitary light bulb above her head. ‘OK, come through and wait for me by the stairs. I have to bolt the door.’
‘Phe-ew! You were right about the smell. It’d take gallons of disinfectant to get rid of that. I don’t think it’s just cat’s wee either.’
‘You wanted to see it – don’t drive me mad. Go on; up you go.’
‘Not much room, is there? Couldn’t swing a soddin’ bird, never mind a cat.’ She walked cautiously up the stone steps, making certain that only the soles of her shoes touched anything. ‘If this was the stage door… the actors must ’ave ’ad to be skinny. I wouldn’t put up with this!’
‘Then you have a lot to learn about the theatre and what you will have to put up with,’ he laughed. It was a throaty, contagious laugh. ‘Quite a lot to learn, I should think.’
He rambled on as they climbed the stone stairway, their footsteps echoing eerily. His flow of words drifted through her head as he kept up his running commentary on the place. He was telling her that the costumes which had been wrapped and kept in a large tin trunk ought really to be in a museum. That the bits of furniture in the props room would fetch a fair penny and that the house lights were in good working order. He told her there were very small bars, one in the main entrance and one in the gallery…
‘The old tickets from the twenties are still in the box office…’ she heard him say, ‘tickets and programmes packed into every cupboard and on every shelf.’
‘That’s enough, Larry.’ She stopped and leaned against the grimy wall, her head bowed.
‘What did I say?’ His voice was tinged with hurt and concern.
‘You have to give me time to take all this in.’
‘Why should you be upset? You’re not frightened, are you? This place isn’t haunted. I wouldn’t come in here myself if it was.’ He stroked her hair and placed his hand under her chin. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know.’ She smiled and wiped away a tear. ‘Something’s happening.’ She pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. ‘Right ’ere. Right now… and I don’t know what it is.’
‘It’s this place. It has the same effect on me. On all of us.’
‘All of you?’ she cleared her throat and composed herself.
‘Sure – on all of us. Us, in our club. Come on, I’ll show you something.’ He took her by the hand and led her up another short flight of steps and unlocked a green door marked Office. As he very slowly opened the door for her to see all, Rosie could hardly believe her eyes. It looked like any cosy, comfortable living room that you would find in a family home. The red patterned carpet was not only clean but hardly worn, and the eight deep-red armchairs looked luxuriously inviting. There was a central round coffee table of polished mahogany, and a wooden bookshelf full of theatre memorabilia.
‘Now…’ said Larry, smiling, pleased and very proud, ‘would you like a cup of tea in a china cup?’
‘What’s goin’ on, Larry? I don’t get it.’
‘You weren’t meant to. I’ll get shot for this. Don’t get too excited,’ he said, filling the kettle, ‘only this room looks like this, except for the toilet just outside the door; everything else is falling apart.’ He waved a finger at her. ‘But not the building. No, the building is sound and in good order. We make sure of that. Of course we would have liked to have done the whole place up, who wouldn’t, but it would cost a fortune. So… we are happy, more than happy, to come here once a week and talk about the theatre… the shows that went on in the past, and… best of all… have play-readings. Sugar?’
‘Two. What are play-readings?’
‘You don’t know what a play-reading is, and you want to be an actress?’
‘Dancer.’
‘Ah. Well… we become actors for an evening, except we don’t have to learn our lines, just get into character and read our parts in the comfort of this room. It started when we found some old scripts here, plays which had been put on in this theatre. We enjoyed ourselves, so much so that now we buy published plays. We’ve built up quite a library,’ he nodded towards the bookcase, ‘as you can see.’
‘Why don’t you put one of ’em on, then? You’ve got a bloody theatre for Christ’s sake!’
‘For one, we don’t have a licence and for two, wait until you’ve seen the rest of the place and you’ll know why.’ He poured boiling water into the teapot and glanced at her. ‘It would cost a fortune to bring it back to something just half as good as its former glory.’ He opened a tiny fridge and took out a half-empty bottle of milk.
‘I thought you could get grants for that kind of thing. From the Arts Company.’
‘Arts Council. A stone that I would not wish to try to get blood out of. If they won’t give it to the Royal, why would they give it to the Star? They’re a bunch of bureaucrats who know little about the workings of a theatre.’ He handed her a cup of tea and sank into a chair. ‘If this theatre is ever to be restored, the funds would have to come from businessmen… who will only be interested in returns.’ He sipped his tea and then slowly shook his head. ‘With the best will in the world you could never make this place pay its way, never mind profit. Except for one way – and it won’t be too long before that happens.’
‘Turn it into a supermarket?’
‘Close. A bingo hall.’
‘They wouldn’t do that.’
‘Why not? It’s the way others have gone. Cinemas will be next, you’ll see. People would rather sit at home in front of a bloody box and watch old second-rate films.’
‘Not if they had a good reason for coming out, they wouldn’t. I’m hardly ever in. We go dancing or to the pictures or parties…’
‘Do you go to the theatre?’
‘Leave off! Who wants to spend good money to sit and listen to some boring old play?’ She started to chuckle. ‘I can just see my new chap putting up with that. He prefers lively places, pubs and clubs and dance halls. Now if it was a really good musical – that’d be different. He’d be up for that. So would his mates. You should turn this place back into a music hall, using songs from the hit parade. My bloke can sing. He sang at my brother’s funeral service. There wasn’t a dry eye in the church.’
‘And does your chap sing for a living?’
‘You must be joking. No he… he’s a docker, among other things.’
‘Ah… a villain.’
‘No, he ain’t! Bloody cheek! He’s good wood; Robin Hood, if you know your slang.’
‘Touché. Well… if he and his cronies want to pass something on to the poor and do a very good turn…’ he waved a hand to indicate the theatre.
