21st August 2014
For the next week or so, I shall post sections of my short story, 'The Village Concert'.
Elsewhere on the site the story is introduced via a Foreword. This I will repeat here, as an introduction to new readers. I hope you enjoy the sentiments portrayed - and join in the spirit of the piece.
It was 1949, and Brian Clarke, managing director, responsible for his particular troupe of players, wondered what to do first, there was so much to do. His was just one of several little concert party groups that had formed and begun touring the country after the war. Their
performances began early in May, usually playing throughout the summer. The troupe travelled by train, coach or whatever transport was available. His group used an old bus.
It was their third week together, spending one night in little village halls like this. Sometimes, if they played a major market town, the venue was larger, but not by much. Some of the performers were professional, working all year round. But most were seasonal players. There was a continual change of personnel as new acts were tried. Frequently, but gently, Brian had to let some know they were no longer required. Many artistes returned to a trade or occupation in the winter. The others "rested".
He didn't have long to dwell on his thoughts. Problems flew at him from all directions, like arrows seeking out their target. He stepped out of the telephone booth to be accosted by three of the village committee responsible for the Welfare Hall they were occupying: Jake, Andrew and Tam.
The hall had been paid for out of the wage packets of the village miners. It was for the good of the village; had many uses, and served the inhabitants well.
‘Oh, Mr Clarke,’ said Jake, ‘d'ye suppose we could open the doors now? The crowd's starting to build up a bit, ye ken.’
‘Aye,’ Andrew added, ‘the village folk ken the Welfare Hall's no' that big. Forbye, the pushy ones are always trying to get in early to book the best seats. But I'll just tell them they can't keep seats for anyone else. They can only have the one they pay for, and that you said it's to be one seat per person. And...'
‘Yes, yes, yes, Brian interrupted. ‘That's just fine, Andrew.’ He knew from past experience that Andrew Black would spout endlessly if allowed to.
‘And the girls for the two ticket offices: are they here and know what to do and what the charges are?’ he asked.
Just you never mind about that, Mr Clark,’ said Jake. ‘Tam here has seen to that. Is that no' right, Tam?’
‘Aye, everything's under control. And I've got some older boys to show people to their seats.’ Tam preened himself.
Brian let out a little sigh of relief, ‘Good, good, well done. And you're sure the electricity fault has been fixed?
Jake wagged his head up and down, conveying confidence. ‘No chance of a failure, Mr Clarke. And we had a word wi' the Pit manager as well, ye ken.’
Brian Clarke looked at him, confused.
‘Oh, aye, ye see the electricity comes frae the Pit and we have tae make sure they dinnae run out of coal. Eh? Heh, Heh. Just a joke, Mr Clarke. Just a wee joke.’
Brian laughed—but half-heartedly.
‘Remember, Andrew, we must get enough money in at the ticket office to pay the artistes. And it has to be counted by the interval. If it looks like there isn't going to be enough to cover costs, then you'll have to arrange something. Maybe sell some more caramels, pandrops and lemonade; and maybe even these new things, crisps I think they're called. I saw some in the corner shop earlier today.’
‘Whit ever ye say, Mr Clarke’ Andrew responded.
Tam was scratching his chin, a calculating look on his face. ‘Well, you're no' havin' to pay for the hall, Mr Clarke, so that's one blessing. But a' suppose you've still got a fair bit to shell out, when you think of it.’
Brian Clark looked at his watch, and threw his hands up in horror.
‘Look at the time. Off you go then and get on with the job.’ He shooed the committee men away.
Sometime later, Brian felt it necessary to speak to Jake about the accomodation made available for the artistes. They stood in one of the backstage corridors.
‘Don't you think the dressing rooms are a bit primitive, Jake?’
‘Best we can do, Sur. This is no' a Palace of Varieties ye ken.’
‘I suppose we'll just have to make do then.’ Brian was disappointed with the answer, but changed the subject, and tried not to feel too downhearted.
‘I'm praying for a reasonable audience, Jake. Do you think the entrance charge—what is it again, one and six for adults, children and old age pensioners half price—will be enough?’
Jake shrugged his shoulders and grunted.
‘There's a lot to pay for, you know.’ Brian continued: ‘Seven acts, the compere and dancers. Then there's myself, the musicians and the stage hands.’
There was no response from Jake.
‘You know, Jake, ‘I still can't get over the fact that there's no backdrop scenery; but costs are just prohibitive.’ In the background, getting louder, the sound of strident voices and arguing could be heard.
There remained thirty minutes before curtain up. Now the babble of noise was threatening to turn into utter bedlam. It appeared to be located in front of the dressing rooms.
There were five changing rooms, only two of which were of a reasonable size; and a mad scramble had ensued as the artistes competed for a decent place.
Brian came upon what could only be described as a general melee.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, he shouted, ‘please, please!! Some order, please!’
Silence fell. The raised voices quietened as their owners realised who was speaking.
Trixie was glaring at the jugglers. ‘It's just not fair, Brian. These people are trying to grab the biggest room. There are eight of us.
Surely it's obvious, even to them, that we need it.’
Brian was aware of Jean, May and Thelma—older, responsible girls—nodding their heads in vigorous agreement.
Trapp Senior spoke up—in a bad-tempered voice. ‘But, Brian, we need the room to store our kit. We have Indian clubs, a spring-board, plates and other stuff.’
In the background, a cacophony of noise began to well-up again as others stated their arguments. They were all had well-grounded viewpoints.
Brian held both his hands up for silence; he turned to the chorus. ‘Alright, girls, you can have the biggest room. But please don't complain to me that it's too small, that its only got two mirrors and one toilet, or that someone’s snagged her stockings on the seats. Okay?’
The chorus girls disappeared inside, squealing.
‘Right, the rest of you. Accommodation, as you can see, is at an absolute premium. So you, Larry, as compere—and the other acts also going on before the interval—will have the remaining dressing rooms.
Let's see, that'll be the Trapp family—you'll have the other big room—then John Scott and Sam Entwhistle, sharing.’
There were groans from the remainder. Brian was exasperated.
‘Look, those playing the second-half can put their gear in with the others; if it helps.’ He turned towards those on first half of the bill.
‘Once your act is finished, get changed and out of there pronto—and let the second half in.
Okay? Any questions?’ His voice softened.
‘Right duckies; off you go and get on with it. Time's pressing. I expect all the acts going on before the interval to report to me before curtain up. Alright?’
There were grunts of agreement.
Fifteen minutes before curtain up, Brian was stationed in the wings, as usual—on the right-hand side of the stage looking out at the auditorium.
It was his favourite vantage point, and where everyone knew he could be found. Larry Jones joined him. He was a third-rate comedian and would have passed without trace if Brian Clark had not befriended him years ago, turning him into a link man. Brian was peeping through the curtains.
Simply for something to say, Larry queried, ‘What's the crowd like, Brian?’
‘It seems to be shaping up quite well, old son. I would say it was more than three-quarters full. Have a look; tell me what you think.’
He opened the curtain a little, allowing his old crony to see better.
As Larry was peeping out, he asked, ‘What's the name of this village again?’
‘It's called Stonecross, Larry. You really must try to remember the names of these centres of civilization, you know.’
Larry frowned at his friend in mock severity.
‘Well, they look a pretty tough lot, Brian. They'll be hard work I'm thinking.’
Larry Jones turned to his friend for some reaction and found himself looking at a man whose downcast face and strained eyes spelled out something was seriously wrong.
‘Tell you what, Larry, you'd best take a good long look at that audience, because it's the last one you'll be seeing with this concert party.’
The compere looked hard at his manager, saw he wasn't kidding and immediately crumpled. But his next reaction was one of sympathy.
‘What's happened, mate? Have they pulled the rug out from under you, then?’
Brian Clarke's glum face was sufficient indication that he was all too correct.
‘Yes they have, I'm afraid. Our funding has dried up, Larry. We can't get any guarantees and nobody is ready to put money up front. So we can't pay wages. In fact, I'm hoping tonight's take will be enough to cover earnings and allow me to put a little in the kitty for winding everything up.’
‘Brian, that's just terrible; and after all the work we've put in.’
‘I know. But the money-men in London don't see it that way. They're making nothing from us.’
Larry looked pensive. ‘How are you going to break it to the rest of them?’ He jerked his head, towards the rear, indicating he meant his fellow artistes.
Brian looked at the floor, utterly dejected. ‘There is no easy way, Larry. I'll just announce it at the end of the evening. It'll be hard to take at first. But maybe that's the only way to handle it.
With ten minutes to go before the concert was due to start, Brian Clark faced another crisis. The piano player, Margaret Roach, hadn't appeared. Tom Cairns the drummer, who doubled up as leader of the band, was working-up a head of steam. They addressed each other just outside the orchestra pit.
‘I just don't understand it, Brian. She was going to the doctor this morning, but told me it was only a minor problem and she would be alright for tonight.’
Brian scratched his head despairingly. There wasn't much he could do so close to curtain time. However, a few minutes later, the woman in person appeared from one of the side doors, face flushed and hair unkempt from running. Both men heaved a sigh of relief.
‘Sorry Brian, sorry Tom. The bus broke down. I had to run from the road-end to get here.
No way of contacting you.’
Still catching her breath, she scrabbled in her case, pulling-out sheets of music. A few seconds were spent flexing her fingers and then she was practicing: playing scales and making little runs on the piano, adding to the strident screeches, honks and assorted noises coming from the others in the band as they warmed up as well.
Before long, however, the discordant musical sounds faded away. They were a compact group; capable players, whose one vital asset was their versatility. Apart from Tom Cairns and Margaret Roach, on drums and piano, respectively, 'Old Abe' MacLaren played fiddle, James Crossan, accordion, Tim Grey, base and guitar. Ian Wilson doubled on clarinet and saxophone. They could accompany almost any act; and frequently rescued many a turn from absolute disaster.
Unknown to Brian Clarke and the rest of the concert party, there were two men in the audience, seated together near the front, Phil Sharpe and Stan Atkins, two north of England men, who had more than a passing interest in the show. They were agents, on the look out for new talent.
Stan was the more talkative of the two.
‘You know, Phil,’ he piped up, ‘the more acts we see the more I'm convinced they were in ENSA with us during the war. They've maybe changed their names but that's about all.’
Phil was nonchalantly filing his nails, as he waited for the show to start.
‘You're probably right, Stan. Best entertainment training anyone could get, that was.’
Stan was bored. ‘Don't you think we're wasting our time here?
Phil shrugged, in a weary fashion, but continued to work on his nails: rubbing them on his palms, feeling for rough edges and snags.
'You never can tell, Stan. It's in places like this that the star-turns of the future learn their trade. And, with a bit of luck, we might stumble on another really talented act: like the comedian we found in Motherwell.’
‘You're dead right, of course, Phil. It's just that time's marching on and I hoped we would have the artistes booked for our summer show by now.’
They settled back in their seats, sensing that the band was ready for the off.
In the audience, four rows back, on the left-hand side, sat villagers, Bella and Lorna. Bella leaned to the side, speaking into her friend’s good ear.
‘These are really good seats, Lorna, we're right near the front.’
‘Aye, Bella, and a' hope it'll be worth it, comin’ oot on such an awfy night.’
Bella turned to look at rest of audience. ‘God almighty Lorna, the place is just seething wi' folk. A' think everybody in Stonecross must be here. D'you think they've all paid?’
Lorna shook her head knowingly. ‘No' if a' ken thon committee men, Bella; especially that Jake Russell and Andrew Black. They'll hae slipped their bairns in for nothing, if a' ken them.’
Both made tut, tutting noises, and sighed, their heads wagging from side to side, knowingly.
In front of the two ladies, in the second front row of seats, sat two village Old Age Pensioners, Dod Mackay and Alex Macleish. Dod peered at his pocket watch. Alex leaned over to look at it too. The poor light in the hall, deliberately engineered to enhance a mood suited for the evening show, made things difficult for their ancient eyes to pick out the hands on the watch.
‘Must be aboot time noo, Dod,’ Alex observed.
‘Aye,’ his pal replied, ‘I make it the half hour, Alex. A' jist wish they'd stop that rammy behind us; I think the band's aboot ready tae strike-up.’
Alex was getting excited. ‘Ye ken, Ah've been looking forward to this a' week. There's something different aboot a live show. It's a grand atmosphere isn't it? Can ye no feel it, man?’
‘Aye, richt enough; but we'll just hae tae hope it’s as guid as ither years, Alex, since...'
He was cut-off in mid-sentence. The band suddenly and loudly came to life, interrupting audience conversations throughout the hall.
They played Rossini's "William Tell" overture, with fire and energy.
The house lights dimmed and the hum of noise from the full-house dropped to a hush, then to silence, defeated by the sound from the orchestra pit.
Next Week: "Curtain up: First half"
Elsewhere on the site the story is introduced via a Foreword. This I will repeat here, as an introduction to new readers. I hope you enjoy the sentiments portrayed - and join in the spirit of the piece.
Foreword
Little
concert parties travelled the length and breadth of Britain after the
2nd World War. Many of the artistes (men and women) were just demobbed
from the armed forces.These were hard times, people were desperate for
work.
The
story, which is light-hearted and humorous in tone, can also be seen as
a sequel, in some ways—though this is unintentional—to 'The Good
Companions', a novel by the English author J B Priestley.
His
book was written in 1929 and focuses on the trials and tribulations of a
concert party in England between World War I and World War II.
In
the working class areas of Scotland and especially in the coalfields,
post-war, these productions were known as 'Go As You Please'
performances.
Sometimes
a local, possessed of a particular talent, would make a first
appearance at one of these engagements. Most, however, came from the
ranks of the acting and vaudeville worlds, temporarily 'resting'—the
term used for being out of full-time job elsewhere.
Many,
of course, came from South-East England, where most of this type of
employment was to be found. Much of the funding for such performing
parties came from London agents and producers. This, as we shall see,
could cause problems.
The Village Concert
(Prologue)It was 1949, and Brian Clarke, managing director, responsible for his particular troupe of players, wondered what to do first, there was so much to do. His was just one of several little concert party groups that had formed and begun touring the country after the war. Their
performances began early in May, usually playing throughout the summer. The troupe travelled by train, coach or whatever transport was available. His group used an old bus.
It was their third week together, spending one night in little village halls like this. Sometimes, if they played a major market town, the venue was larger, but not by much. Some of the performers were professional, working all year round. But most were seasonal players. There was a continual change of personnel as new acts were tried. Frequently, but gently, Brian had to let some know they were no longer required. Many artistes returned to a trade or occupation in the winter. The others "rested".
Being
near the start of the season, Brian Clarke, stage manager, front of the
house supremo, administrator, artistic director, technical adviser and
general factotum, as well as manager, was harassed. This was quite often
the case. Nevertheless, despite his frequently troubled face, he was
well-liked and respected by cast and musicians in his touring concert
party; of course, he was also the paymaster and this helped.
*
The head of Willie, one of the stagehands appeared through a curtain.
‘That's your phone call now, Brian. The one you've been waiting for.’
The stagehand's head disappeared behind the curtain again. Brian Clarke leapt to his feet, betraying his nervousness.
‘That's your phone call now, Brian. The one you've been waiting for.’
The stagehand's head disappeared behind the curtain again. Brian Clarke leapt to his feet, betraying his nervousness.
‘Thanks,
Willie,’ he muttered, almost inaudibly, and headed for the telephone
booth situated in the foyer of the village hall. Already, his mind was
focused on what he thought the incoming message might be. He settled
himself in the cubicle, closed the door, and gathered his thoughts
together before picking up the instrument.
‘Julian,
how are you old thing? Yes, it's all going with a swing up here.
Everything tickety-boo your end? Oh! I see. Quite serious then? Uhuh. No
chance of another backer is there? Well, if you've tried all channels,
that's it, I suppose. If you can't swing it, nobody can. Thanks for the
effort, old man. I, I'll be alright. Sure. Don't worry, something will
turn up. Gotta go, I'm afraid. Let's see,’ Brian looked at his watch,
‘Only three quarters of an hour to curtain up. Right O. See you in the
Lord Shaftesbury. Your round. Bye, Julian.’
Brian
replaced the receiver slowly and then sat staring at it. His face
registered the sadness he felt. The troupe was finished, it was all
over. It struck him forcibly just how ridiculous the situation now was.
He had been bursting a gut to make sure the show would go on. Now he
would simply announce to everyone that it was cancelled—due to
circumstances beyond his control.
For some minutes he continued to sit and gaze into space, thinking.
‘Well, that's it then,’ he said aloud. ‘We're all washed up.’ Another minute elapsed, when a determined look came over his face. He continued to speak to himself.
‘Well, that's it then,’ he said aloud. ‘We're all washed up.’ Another minute elapsed, when a determined look came over his face. He continued to speak to himself.
‘I'm not having it, I'm just not. These people are going to have their concert. The show goes on!’
*He didn't have long to dwell on his thoughts. Problems flew at him from all directions, like arrows seeking out their target. He stepped out of the telephone booth to be accosted by three of the village committee responsible for the Welfare Hall they were occupying: Jake, Andrew and Tam.
The hall had been paid for out of the wage packets of the village miners. It was for the good of the village; had many uses, and served the inhabitants well.
‘Oh, Mr Clarke,’ said Jake, ‘d'ye suppose we could open the doors now? The crowd's starting to build up a bit, ye ken.’
‘Aye,’ Andrew added, ‘the village folk ken the Welfare Hall's no' that big. Forbye, the pushy ones are always trying to get in early to book the best seats. But I'll just tell them they can't keep seats for anyone else. They can only have the one they pay for, and that you said it's to be one seat per person. And...'
‘Yes, yes, yes, Brian interrupted. ‘That's just fine, Andrew.’ He knew from past experience that Andrew Black would spout endlessly if allowed to.
‘And the girls for the two ticket offices: are they here and know what to do and what the charges are?’ he asked.
Just you never mind about that, Mr Clark,’ said Jake. ‘Tam here has seen to that. Is that no' right, Tam?’
‘Aye, everything's under control. And I've got some older boys to show people to their seats.’ Tam preened himself.
Brian let out a little sigh of relief, ‘Good, good, well done. And you're sure the electricity fault has been fixed?
Jake wagged his head up and down, conveying confidence. ‘No chance of a failure, Mr Clarke. And we had a word wi' the Pit manager as well, ye ken.’
Brian Clarke looked at him, confused.
‘Oh, aye, ye see the electricity comes frae the Pit and we have tae make sure they dinnae run out of coal. Eh? Heh, Heh. Just a joke, Mr Clarke. Just a wee joke.’
Brian laughed—but half-heartedly.
‘Remember, Andrew, we must get enough money in at the ticket office to pay the artistes. And it has to be counted by the interval. If it looks like there isn't going to be enough to cover costs, then you'll have to arrange something. Maybe sell some more caramels, pandrops and lemonade; and maybe even these new things, crisps I think they're called. I saw some in the corner shop earlier today.’
‘Whit ever ye say, Mr Clarke’ Andrew responded.
Tam was scratching his chin, a calculating look on his face. ‘Well, you're no' havin' to pay for the hall, Mr Clarke, so that's one blessing. But a' suppose you've still got a fair bit to shell out, when you think of it.’
Brian Clark looked at his watch, and threw his hands up in horror.
‘Look at the time. Off you go then and get on with the job.’ He shooed the committee men away.
Sometime later, Brian felt it necessary to speak to Jake about the accomodation made available for the artistes. They stood in one of the backstage corridors.
‘Don't you think the dressing rooms are a bit primitive, Jake?’
‘Best we can do, Sur. This is no' a Palace of Varieties ye ken.’
‘I suppose we'll just have to make do then.’ Brian was disappointed with the answer, but changed the subject, and tried not to feel too downhearted.
‘I'm praying for a reasonable audience, Jake. Do you think the entrance charge—what is it again, one and six for adults, children and old age pensioners half price—will be enough?’
Jake shrugged his shoulders and grunted.
‘There's a lot to pay for, you know.’ Brian continued: ‘Seven acts, the compere and dancers. Then there's myself, the musicians and the stage hands.’
There was no response from Jake.
‘You know, Jake, ‘I still can't get over the fact that there's no backdrop scenery; but costs are just prohibitive.’ In the background, getting louder, the sound of strident voices and arguing could be heard.
*
There remained thirty minutes before curtain up. Now the babble of noise was threatening to turn into utter bedlam. It appeared to be located in front of the dressing rooms.
There were five changing rooms, only two of which were of a reasonable size; and a mad scramble had ensued as the artistes competed for a decent place.
Brian came upon what could only be described as a general melee.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, he shouted, ‘please, please!! Some order, please!’
Silence fell. The raised voices quietened as their owners realised who was speaking.
Trixie was glaring at the jugglers. ‘It's just not fair, Brian. These people are trying to grab the biggest room. There are eight of us.
Surely it's obvious, even to them, that we need it.’
Brian was aware of Jean, May and Thelma—older, responsible girls—nodding their heads in vigorous agreement.
Trapp Senior spoke up—in a bad-tempered voice. ‘But, Brian, we need the room to store our kit. We have Indian clubs, a spring-board, plates and other stuff.’
In the background, a cacophony of noise began to well-up again as others stated their arguments. They were all had well-grounded viewpoints.
Brian held both his hands up for silence; he turned to the chorus. ‘Alright, girls, you can have the biggest room. But please don't complain to me that it's too small, that its only got two mirrors and one toilet, or that someone’s snagged her stockings on the seats. Okay?’
The chorus girls disappeared inside, squealing.
‘Right, the rest of you. Accommodation, as you can see, is at an absolute premium. So you, Larry, as compere—and the other acts also going on before the interval—will have the remaining dressing rooms.
Let's see, that'll be the Trapp family—you'll have the other big room—then John Scott and Sam Entwhistle, sharing.’
There were groans from the remainder. Brian was exasperated.
‘Look, those playing the second-half can put their gear in with the others; if it helps.’ He turned towards those on first half of the bill.
‘Once your act is finished, get changed and out of there pronto—and let the second half in.
Okay? Any questions?’ His voice softened.
‘Right duckies; off you go and get on with it. Time's pressing. I expect all the acts going on before the interval to report to me before curtain up. Alright?’
There were grunts of agreement.
*
Fifteen minutes before curtain up, Brian was stationed in the wings, as usual—on the right-hand side of the stage looking out at the auditorium.
It was his favourite vantage point, and where everyone knew he could be found. Larry Jones joined him. He was a third-rate comedian and would have passed without trace if Brian Clark had not befriended him years ago, turning him into a link man. Brian was peeping through the curtains.
Simply for something to say, Larry queried, ‘What's the crowd like, Brian?’
‘It seems to be shaping up quite well, old son. I would say it was more than three-quarters full. Have a look; tell me what you think.’
He opened the curtain a little, allowing his old crony to see better.
As Larry was peeping out, he asked, ‘What's the name of this village again?’
‘It's called Stonecross, Larry. You really must try to remember the names of these centres of civilization, you know.’
Larry frowned at his friend in mock severity.
‘Well, they look a pretty tough lot, Brian. They'll be hard work I'm thinking.’
Larry Jones turned to his friend for some reaction and found himself looking at a man whose downcast face and strained eyes spelled out something was seriously wrong.
‘Tell you what, Larry, you'd best take a good long look at that audience, because it's the last one you'll be seeing with this concert party.’
The compere looked hard at his manager, saw he wasn't kidding and immediately crumpled. But his next reaction was one of sympathy.
‘What's happened, mate? Have they pulled the rug out from under you, then?’
Brian Clarke's glum face was sufficient indication that he was all too correct.
‘Yes they have, I'm afraid. Our funding has dried up, Larry. We can't get any guarantees and nobody is ready to put money up front. So we can't pay wages. In fact, I'm hoping tonight's take will be enough to cover earnings and allow me to put a little in the kitty for winding everything up.’
‘Brian, that's just terrible; and after all the work we've put in.’
‘I know. But the money-men in London don't see it that way. They're making nothing from us.’
Larry looked pensive. ‘How are you going to break it to the rest of them?’ He jerked his head, towards the rear, indicating he meant his fellow artistes.
Brian looked at the floor, utterly dejected. ‘There is no easy way, Larry. I'll just announce it at the end of the evening. It'll be hard to take at first. But maybe that's the only way to handle it.
*
With ten minutes to go before the concert was due to start, Brian Clark faced another crisis. The piano player, Margaret Roach, hadn't appeared. Tom Cairns the drummer, who doubled up as leader of the band, was working-up a head of steam. They addressed each other just outside the orchestra pit.
‘I just don't understand it, Brian. She was going to the doctor this morning, but told me it was only a minor problem and she would be alright for tonight.’
Brian scratched his head despairingly. There wasn't much he could do so close to curtain time. However, a few minutes later, the woman in person appeared from one of the side doors, face flushed and hair unkempt from running. Both men heaved a sigh of relief.
‘Sorry Brian, sorry Tom. The bus broke down. I had to run from the road-end to get here.
No way of contacting you.’
Still catching her breath, she scrabbled in her case, pulling-out sheets of music. A few seconds were spent flexing her fingers and then she was practicing: playing scales and making little runs on the piano, adding to the strident screeches, honks and assorted noises coming from the others in the band as they warmed up as well.
Before long, however, the discordant musical sounds faded away. They were a compact group; capable players, whose one vital asset was their versatility. Apart from Tom Cairns and Margaret Roach, on drums and piano, respectively, 'Old Abe' MacLaren played fiddle, James Crossan, accordion, Tim Grey, base and guitar. Ian Wilson doubled on clarinet and saxophone. They could accompany almost any act; and frequently rescued many a turn from absolute disaster.
*
Unknown to Brian Clarke and the rest of the concert party, there were two men in the audience, seated together near the front, Phil Sharpe and Stan Atkins, two north of England men, who had more than a passing interest in the show. They were agents, on the look out for new talent.
Stan was the more talkative of the two.
‘You know, Phil,’ he piped up, ‘the more acts we see the more I'm convinced they were in ENSA with us during the war. They've maybe changed their names but that's about all.’
Phil was nonchalantly filing his nails, as he waited for the show to start.
‘You're probably right, Stan. Best entertainment training anyone could get, that was.’
Stan was bored. ‘Don't you think we're wasting our time here?
Phil shrugged, in a weary fashion, but continued to work on his nails: rubbing them on his palms, feeling for rough edges and snags.
'You never can tell, Stan. It's in places like this that the star-turns of the future learn their trade. And, with a bit of luck, we might stumble on another really talented act: like the comedian we found in Motherwell.’
‘You're dead right, of course, Phil. It's just that time's marching on and I hoped we would have the artistes booked for our summer show by now.’
They settled back in their seats, sensing that the band was ready for the off.
*
In the audience, four rows back, on the left-hand side, sat villagers, Bella and Lorna. Bella leaned to the side, speaking into her friend’s good ear.
‘These are really good seats, Lorna, we're right near the front.’
‘Aye, Bella, and a' hope it'll be worth it, comin’ oot on such an awfy night.’
Bella turned to look at rest of audience. ‘God almighty Lorna, the place is just seething wi' folk. A' think everybody in Stonecross must be here. D'you think they've all paid?’
Lorna shook her head knowingly. ‘No' if a' ken thon committee men, Bella; especially that Jake Russell and Andrew Black. They'll hae slipped their bairns in for nothing, if a' ken them.’
Both made tut, tutting noises, and sighed, their heads wagging from side to side, knowingly.
In front of the two ladies, in the second front row of seats, sat two village Old Age Pensioners, Dod Mackay and Alex Macleish. Dod peered at his pocket watch. Alex leaned over to look at it too. The poor light in the hall, deliberately engineered to enhance a mood suited for the evening show, made things difficult for their ancient eyes to pick out the hands on the watch.
‘Must be aboot time noo, Dod,’ Alex observed.
‘Aye,’ his pal replied, ‘I make it the half hour, Alex. A' jist wish they'd stop that rammy behind us; I think the band's aboot ready tae strike-up.’
Alex was getting excited. ‘Ye ken, Ah've been looking forward to this a' week. There's something different aboot a live show. It's a grand atmosphere isn't it? Can ye no feel it, man?’
‘Aye, richt enough; but we'll just hae tae hope it’s as guid as ither years, Alex, since...'
He was cut-off in mid-sentence. The band suddenly and loudly came to life, interrupting audience conversations throughout the hall.
They played Rossini's "William Tell" overture, with fire and energy.
The house lights dimmed and the hum of noise from the full-house dropped to a hush, then to silence, defeated by the sound from the orchestra pit.
***
Next Week: "Curtain up: First half"
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