Until We Meet Again Page 4

  ‘I’m glad the tide’s in our favour, anyway,’ she remarked. ‘I much prefer to perform on the sands, rather than the promenade. There’s more room and it seems – well – so much more like a Pierrot show. I can’t help wondering, though, if our days are numbered.’

  ‘They may well be, but let’s look on the bright side,’ said her husband. ‘Of course, the troupe’s main source of income now is the touring company. I must admit the Pierrot show has become more of a sideline, but it will be a sad day for the resort when Uncle Percy’s Pierrots stop appearing in Scarborough.’

  ‘It’s all rather primitive, though, isn’t it?’ said Maddy. ‘It’s very little different even now from the early days of the Pierrot shows. Jessie and I used to be agog with excitement, sitting on the edge of our seats and lapping it all up. They were our idols, those men and ladies up there on the stage. It all seemed so…so glamorous.’

  Freddie laughed. ‘And then you joined them and realised it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be?’

  ‘Oh, I enjoyed it all, whatever the weather, whatever the circumstances,’ said Maddy. We had plenty of setbacks and minor calamities, but we took them all in our stride. So did the audiences; they just laughed if anything went wrong. But they seemed to be far less critical then. They’re expecting a higher standard now.’

  Uncle Percy’s Pierrots had been started back in the 1890s by Percy Morgan. It was a progression from the earlier troupe, Morgan’s Merry Minstrels, begun by Henry Morgan, Percy’s father, in the days of the Negro minstrel shows. It had run for several years, but then times had changed and the black-faced minstrels found themselves being challenged by the Pierrots. They were the antithesis of the Negro minstrels, with their faces whitened with zinc oxide, instead of being blackened by burnt cork. The Pierrot shows became an immediate success and within a few years every seaside resort in the country boasted at least one troupe. In the beginning they performed on an area of beach known as their ‘pitch’, sometimes on laid-down boards and sometimes directly on the sand. Later on they built open-air stages, known as ‘alfrescos’. The audience stood or sat around the stage, the ones in the deckchairs being charged a nominal fee and the children sitting on mats or forms at the front.

  The chief drawback was that the stage had to be dismantled each day and carted away from the beach and the incoming tide. And the piano, too, which the more enterprising troupes boasted, had to be brought down to the beach each day by a man pushing a handcart; he was always known as the ‘barrer-man’.

  These early troupes supported themselves financially by collecting from the audiences. The collector was always a man of great charm and charisma, skilled at persuading folk to part with their pennies, threepenny bits or sixpences. He went round the crowd at the interval with a wooden box or a velvet bag on the end of a stick, and he was always known as the ‘bottler’. The term ‘bottling’, which was how the collecting of money was known, was said to derive from the fact that the proceeds of the collections were placed in a bottle so that they were not easily removable. At the end of each week the bottle was broken and the money shared out fairly between the members of the company.

  Things were rather more sophisticated now, though. A realistic price was charged for seats and patrons were encouraged to sit down rather than stand. Programmes were sold, also picture postcards of the members of the troupe, and song books containing the words and, in some cases, the music of the troupe’s repertoire. And they no longer whitened their faces; in fact Percy’s troupe had never done so as he had realised the dangers of this from the start.

  They were always at the mercy of the weather, however. There was no roof over their heads should the rain suddenly start, nor the safety of a theatre dressing room to run to – although many of those were far from comfortable – only a make-shift dressing tent. In a heavy rainstorm the audience could quickly disappear, taking shelter by the promenade wall or under the pier. If the weather looked as though it were going to be bad for quite a while some troupes put up notices saying, ‘If wet, under the pier’. This, indeed, had come to be a standing joke amongst the Pierrot fraternity as the years went by. In Scarborough, alas, it was no longer possible to shelter there. The North Bay pier had been wrecked in a storm as long ago as 1905 and had never been rebuilt.

  ‘Well, I reckon we’ve certainly kept our standard up,’ said Freddie in answer to Maddy’s remark. ‘And I’m sure we’ll have an enthusiastic audience tonight. I agree with you, love. I’m glad it’ll be on the beach. And we must at least be thankful that this glorious weather is holding. Fingers crossed, of course.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ replied Maddy. ‘It was a blow to Percy, though, when we lost the Clarence Gardens site. That was an ideal place to perform when the tide was in. And then it went to Will Catlin. I know it’s a while ago now, but Percy still has regrets about it.’

  This was an area near to the top of the North Bay cliff. There were wide open spaces and grassy banks, flowerbeds, gas lamps, and benches provided for folk to take their ease when they were tired from the walk up the cliff path. Most importantly there was a kiosk where brass bands played and which the Pierrots could use for their performances. Percy’s troupe had oftentimes made use of this site when the tide was in, but in 1908 their long-time rival, Will Catlin, had acquired sole rights to the Clarence Gardens kiosk and site. When they were forced off the beach by the tide they now performed on the promenade, near to the Carlton Hotel, but this had never proved as popular as their earlier venue.

  ‘We don’t have Catlin’s resources though, do we?’ Freddie observed. ‘But you may be sure that world events will curtail his grandiose schemes, just as they will with all of us.’

  ‘Then let’s just pray that it’ll be over soon,’ said Maddy quietly, ‘…or that it doesn’t really get started at all.’

  The Moon family and their friends were there in force at Maddy’s guest appearance. William and Faith; Patrick, with his wife, Katy; Jessie and her husband, Arthur Newsome; the twins, Tommy and Tilly, with Tommy’s friend, Dominic; and Hetty, who was William’s elder daughter, the child who had been the result of an early indiscretion of William’s and whom he had not seen until she was grown up. She was there with her husband, Bertram Lucas and their five-year-old daughter, Angela. She was considered old enough to accompany her parents on this special occasion, but Amy and Gregory, the children of Maddy and Jessie respectively, were still too young and had been left at home in the care of responsible friends.

  Emily Stringer, Maddy’s business partner, was there, too, as were Joe Black, the assistant undertaker, with his wife; Muriel Phipps, Faith’s business partner from Moon’s Modes; and Mrs Baker, the Moons’ invaluable cook and housekeeper.

  There was a good number of people in the audience as well as the Moon contingent, all eager to escape for a little while from the harsh realities of the world. Yesterday’s news had alarmed them all. Throughout the previous day and today, the declaration of war had been the main topic of conversation on everyone’s lips, but now they were ready to forget their troubles and be lifted out of themselves watching the light-hearted revelry of their favourite Pierrots.

  There was a cheer from the crowd when Percy Morgan – in his Pierrot costume of white tunic, wide-legged trousers and conical hat with black pom-poms – stepped on to the stage.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘and a hearty welcome to this very special show. We have some wonderful acts lined up for you tonight, so forget your worries and smile! Come along now, let me see you smile… Yes! That’s better. Now then…are we downhearted?’

  ‘No, Percy…’

  ‘Of course not…’

  ‘You bet your life we’re not!’ came the vehement answers from all quarters.

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ he replied. ‘So…with no more ado, let the merriment begin.’

  The troupe of Pierrots, consisting of seven men and four ladies, ran onto the stage singing, to the accompaniment of the music played by
Letty, Percy’s wife, on the piano.

  ‘Here we are again,

  Happy as can be;

  All good pals and jolly good company…’

  Maddy and Freddie were not in the opening chorus; Maddy was regarded now solely as a guest artiste and Freddie only performed a few times a week. The rest of the company, the full-time Pierrots, appeared in traditional costume at the beginning and end of each show, changing for the sketches and solo performances, if needs be, in the dressing tents either side of the stage.

  The audience were all singing lustily by the time the opening chorus came to an end.

  ‘Lah – di – dah – di – dah!

  Lah – di – dah – di – dee!

  All good pals and jolly good company.’

  There was a tremendous cheer as the Pierrots tripped off the stage, which boded well for the rest of the show. Tilly had a feeling she was going to enjoy the evening immensely. She had been rather surprised when Tommy’s friend, Dominic, had arrived at the house just as they were about to set off. She had not realised he was coming and wondered if, indeed, a Pierrot show would be to his liking. She had the impression at times that his interests might be rather more high-flown.

  It was a fair distance from their home on South Bay to the spot on North Bay where the show was to take place, so William had offered to run the members of his household there in his large Renault motor-car. This was the one for family use, apart from the Daimler saloon car, which was used for funerals. He managed to find a place to park the car on the promenade, then they walked down the winding cliff path and the steps leading to the beach. Dominic had sat next to Tilly in the car, whether by accident or design she was not sure; but there could be no doubt about the way he had contrived to walk with her down the slope and across the sands and then sat on the seat next to her on the second row.

  Tilly remembered how, as a little girl, she had sat in almost the selfsame spot watching the Pierrot shows. And it was surprising how many of the artistes from fourteen or so years ago were still there today. All, inevitably, looking a little older, but all of them still very spry and polished performers. The newer ones who had joined the troupe after those early years were Freddie, of course, as a conjuror; Jeremy Jarvis, the ventriloquist, and his wife, who danced and sang, still performing under her maiden name of Dora Daventry; and Cedric Wotherspoon, whom Percy had engaged last season as a singer of comic songs and who also recited ballads, both serious and amusing ones.

  She had not watched the performances very much of late, except when Maddy was appearing; and as she sat leaning forward eagerly in her canvas chair, Tilly found herself taking a trip down Memory Lane.

  Nancy, with her performing dogs, had been her favourite act. They had been little West Highland terriers – Westies – called Daisy and Dolly, but they had been retired a few years ago and replaced by two Scots terriers, black, not white, whose names, so Maddy had told her, were Lucky and Trixie. Their tricks did not vary much from those of their predecessors. They jumped through hoops and over canes which were raised a little each time; sat up and begged for biscuits; and danced, partnering Nancy, on their hind legs. They were well-trained and obedient, but Tilly knew they were treated with kindness. Nancy loved them as the children she had never had and her chief consideration when they were travelling was that her canine companions should have the best of everything.

  Barney and Benjy, the Dancing Duo, showed their usual expertise as their patent-leather-clad feet tapped with wild abandon to the fast rhythm of the jazzy tunes, all the while flashing their brilliant white teeth in beaming smiles. How old were they? Tilly wondered. Surely they must be forty if they were a day by now, but they appeared ageless; Barney, sleek and dark-haired and pale of complexion, and Benjy, rosy-cheeked and with curly blonde hair. Many assumed them to be brothers despite their dissimilar looks, but they were just ‘very good friends’ who had been dancing together for ages, not without tiffs and clashes of personality from time to time.

  Another performer who seemed never to age was Susannah Brown, the soubrettist of the troupe who sang light-hearted, sometimes cheeky, songs and was well known for flirting with the audience. She was now Susannah Morrison, of course, having married Frank Morrison, the Music Man and her long-time friend, several years ago. Tilly hazarded a guess that Susannah, also, must be in her forties now and her husband at least ten years older. As well as being husband and wife they had now combined their act as well.

  ‘You are my honey, honeysuckle, I am the bee…’ sang Frank, whilst his wife pirouetted around him, her saucy blue eyes twinkling and winking at the audience.

  Then Susannah sang on her own, ‘The boy I love is up in the gallery, the boy I love is looking down at me…’ and then Frank showed his proficiency on the banjo, concertina and mouth organ.

  It was Freddie’s turn next and he made his family proud, astounding everyone with his faultless tricks: making spots disappear from playing cards, miles of silken scarves appear from nowhere, full containers miraculously become empty and a lop-eared white rabbit jump from a top hat to the accompaniment of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the audience.

  There was a witty sketch about a courting couple and an irate father in which several members took part, then a recitation of ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ by the new man, Cedric Wotherspoon. But what Tilly was waiting for above all else was the moment when Maddy would take her place on the stage.

  Her solo spot was the last item before the interval. Percy stepped onto the stage and announced, ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment I am sure you have all been waiting for. We have with us tonight Miss Madeleine Moon, “Yorkshire’s own songbird” and, of course, as many of you know, a lass from right here in Scarborough. So please give a hearty welcome to our guest artiste…Madeleine Moon.’

  She ran onto the stage in her usual girlish way to a warm welcome from the audience. She stood there smiling until the applause had died down, then she nodded to the pianist, Letty, who played just one note on the piano. Then Maddy sang, unaccompanied, the song which over the years she had made her very own.

  ‘Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

  Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme;

  Remember me to one who lives there,

  For once he was a true love of mine.’

  When she was younger Maddy had always worn a simple dress of cream or white which emphasised her youth and innocence. Tonight she wore a dress of lilac silken chiffon with a narrow skirt and a hemline cut into points, known as a ‘handkerchief’ hemline, which showed off her neat ankles. The cummerbund, in a darker shade of purple, was decorated by a silken posy at one side. It was simple yet elegant, the height of fashion without being ostentatious.

  But it was her voice that people would remember even more than the loveliness of her face and her golden hair, worn loose now and waving gently almost to her shoulders. The silver-toned notes of the haunting melody rang out across the soft air of the summer night. There was a moment’s hush when she stopped singing, then rapturous applause to which Maddy bowed her head in her usual unassuming manner.

  She sang two more songs, this time accompanied by the piano; ‘Silver Threads among the Gold’ and one which revealed the more frivolous side of her nature and with which the audience were invited to join in the chorus.

  ‘I wouldn’t leave my little wooden hut for you;

  I’ve got one lover and I don’t want two…’

  Then she curtsied to the audience, kissed and waved her hand, and ran into the dressing tent to the sound of clapping and cheering and even one or two whistles.

  ‘Well, that will have cheered everyone up, I’m sure,’ remarked Tilly. ‘She’s very good, my sister, isn’t she? I told you what a lovely voice she has.’

  ‘Yes, I’m very impressed,’ replied Dominic. ‘It’s the first time I’ve heard her sing. It seems that yours is a very talented family. Piano playing and singing, and your brother’s a wizard at Maths. Even better than me!’ he remark
ed with a sardonic grin.

  Tilly hadn’t quite got the measure of him yet. She wasn’t sure whether he was conceited and self-opinionated, or if his remarks contained a touch of irony. Or if his facetiousness was, maybe, a cover for a lack of confidence. She just smiled in reply, unsure as to what to say.

  Pete, the ‘bottler’, was coming round now with his bag on a stick. He was one of the funny men of the troupe and a good all-rounder who could turn his hand to anything. He had been with Percy’s company ever since it started, along with his wife, Nancy, who had the performing dogs. Most people had paid for their seats on arrival, but there were others standing at the back, and there were not many folk who did not dig deep into their purses or pockets to drop another coin or two into the bag. Pete was skilled, after many years of experience, at extracting money from the crowds, ‘as skilled as a dentist extracting teeth,’ he sometimes quipped.

  There was a buzz of conversation going on all around, about the marvellous show and the wonderful weather, and how good it was to see so-and-so again… Clearly everyone’s spirits had been raised and there was not a whisper of the war.

  The second half of the show commenced with the Pierrots and the audience singing, ‘Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside…’ This was followed by the final acts of the night: another comedy sketch about a frustrated debt collector; Jeremy Jarvis, the ventriloquist, with his trio of wooden dolls – Tommy the Toff, Belinda the Belle of the Ball, and Desmond the Drunkard; Pete and Percy, the comedy duo, with jokes old and new; Percy again, singing romantic ballads with Dora Daventry; Cedric, dressed as a judge, singing comedy songs from Gilbert and Sullivan’s ‘Iolanthe’; and Maddy, in her second spot of the evening.

  She sang two plaintive Scottish ballads, ‘Robin Adair’ and ‘Comin’ thru’ the Rye’. Then a light-hearted song, ‘In the Twi-twi-twilight’. Once again the audience sang along happily to the chorus.