12th September 2014

Here then, everybody, is the last portion of the little story entitled The Village Concert.

 

(Postscript)

A babble of noise accompanied the villagers as they shuffled their way outside. One or two arguments continued over which had been the best act. Differing opinions regarding the features of some performance or other continued to be expressed; and these were sure to go on for some time. It was a noisy, but satisfied throng; then people began to disappear as they went their separate ways home. 

The old pensioners, ex-miners, Dod and Alex, were no sooner outside than they were contentedly smoking their pipes.

‘Man, it's grand tae feel the fresh air on yer face, Dod. And ye ken, I've been dying tae have a puff at my pipe for ages.’

‘Losh, aye, Alex, yer right about that; but it was worth doin’ without for a wee while, I suppose. That was a grand show.’ 

Bella and Lorna were similarly content. Active participation at the end of the evening had been the very thing for them. They had given way to all their feelings at the appropriate moments during the show, cheering on their favourites. 

‘Weel, Lorna, that's it for anither year I suppose.’

‘Aye, Bella,’ her chum replied, in a resigned voice, ‘Just mucky American films frae noo on; and trashy English yins as weel. Bit never mind, they'll keep the bairns quiet for a wee while at least, and gie us some peace.’

Outside the Welfare Hall, agents Phil and Stan lingered.

‘Well, Stan, I say we talk to the manager here and now. It's the best time.’

‘Happen you're right, Phil. Let's do our sums first, though, and then we'll make our move.’

They returned to their car and started the engine to keep warm—it was a new model, and interior heating had only just been introduced. The pair set to work, making comparisons and calculations, taking notes.

*

Twenty minutes after the curtain was drawn for the last time, the village hall was empty. Now the cast, stagehands and musicians—everyone associated with the show—gathered directly in front of the stage to be paid, as arranged. They waited in little groups, conversing in low voices—worried.

Brian returned from the committee room, where he had checked the pay packets made up by the committee men from the evening's takings, as instructed. In each winner's pay packet, he had placed the additional cash won. But in every envelope, he also added a little more; a token of his feelings now that the concert party had reached the end of the line.

The performers were subdued while receiving their pay packets. Although grateful for Brian’s generosity, which several thanked him for, profusely, the enormity of the fact that this was the last show was striking home. 

Nevertheless, they had still to hear the fateful word directly from their employer. Brian was seated on the right-hand side of the stage, on the very edge, feet placed on the steps that led down to the hall floor. He was preparing himself to utter the dreaded words of closure, which spelt doom to the artistes. There was no other course of action, however, he had to let them go.

It was at this juncture—just when Brian felt capable of saying the few words he had prepared—that there was movement at the far end of the hall, and Jake Russell appeared with Phil Sharpe and Stan Atkins in tow. The group approached the stage area.

‘Two gentlemen wishing to speak to you, Mr Clarke,’ said Jake, in a reserved manner.

Brian looked up and frowned. Having built himself up for his speech, he now wanted to make it; although he wasn't kidding himself that the cast didn't know what was coming. So this interruption was not very welcome. Nevertheless, good manners prevailed. 

Brian stood up and approached Phil and Stan. 

‘Good evening, gentlemen. What can I do for you?’ 

The agents had decided beforehand that Stan would open the proceedings.

‘If we might have a few words in private, Mr Clarke,’ he said, very politely.

‘Of course,’ said Brian, ‘Mr..?’ 

‘Stan Atkins is the name; and this here's my partner, Phil Sharpe.’ 

They shook hands. Brian, however, was still anxious to say his piece.

‘Well, Mr Atkins, if you can allow me a few minutes to say some words to the Company before they go, I'll be right with you.’ 

He began to turn away, but Phil Sharpe, acting quickly, cut in. He had been surveying the dismal countenances surrounding the stage and guessed the reason why.

‘As you wish, Mr Clarke, but what we have to say might involve some of them.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the artistes. ‘So, perhaps best just to leave them alone for a few minutes while we talk; if that's alright with you.’ 

This last statement certainly had Brian puzzled. They moved out of ear-shot of the others by clambering up the steps, on to the stage and disappearing behind the curtains. The assembled cast had heard all of this, of course, and were now just as curious as their boss to find out what was up. 

Brian was once more back in his favourite spot, in the wings. He turned towards the two men, a big question mark on his face.

‘I'll do the talking, shall I, Stan?’ His partner shrugged in reply, as if it didn't really matter who should speak, but secretly was a bit miffed. 

‘Right, Mr Clarke, it's like this,’ Phil Sharpe began, 'Stan and I are in the same business as yourself, see. And although times are hard, well, we've managed to get some extra backing...’ Here he found it necessary to cough into his handkerchief in an affected manner. He continued, ‘And, added to the shilling or two we have ourselves...’ This time he took some time wiping his nose. ‘we hope to produce a show at Dunbar this summer...’

Stan seized his chance to interrupt. 

‘Mr Clarke,’ He received a glare from his partner. ‘To come straight to the point, we liked what we saw tonight, especially that new twist you added at the end, the "Make Your Mind Up Time" business.’

Brian looked from one to the other in disbelief.

Phil Atkins broke into the conversation, ponderously, ‘What we would like to do, Mr Clarke, is to offer you the post of Director of our forthcoming show.’ He paused. ‘You would have complete control of stage management for the production, right through the summer. Although, ahem;’ here he paused to wipe his moustache with a large white handkerchief, ‘we both know a fair bit ourselves, in that regard, and might be able to lend a hand, if so desired. What do you say to that then?’

At first, Brian could only gape at the two agents; he felt he should pinch himself hard. He concluded he was not dreaming, but to begin with, he could scarcely stammer a reply.

‘I..., eh..., I don't really know what to say. It certainly sounds very inviting, very inviting indeed.’ He didn't want to admit that this was the last show for his little group, yet didn’t know how to avoid doing so.

‘Listen, Mr Clarke,’ Phil Sharpe said in an urgent tone of voice, ‘I’m sure we can top any money you'll be getting just now. We really wish to use your idea—I take it that it is yours?’ 

Brian nodded in the affirmative, and Phil continued. ‘If you say now that you'll take the job, we can arrange to meet later—say next Thursday, 2 o'clock, in the Caledonian Hotel in Edinburgh. We can discuss wages and other details then. How would that suit you?’

 

Brian had a thought: ‘What about the acts you saw tonight; and the orchestra and stagehands? Are you interested?’ 

‘Well, we are able to say, right now,’ Stan replied, ‘that we liked some of them very much—especially the band and the chorus line—and would like to talk to you about all that as well, when we meet next Thursday. What do you say?’  

Brian stuck out his hand; a large smile wreathed his face. 

‘Gentlemen, it's a deal; and thanks for your confidence in me.’ 

Two smiles matching his own beamed back. Brian made a mental note to himself, that he would do his very best for everyone when next he met Phil and Stan; however, this would not include Ike Wells, the ventriloquist. 

‘Right then,’ said Phil, ‘we'll be off, and let you finish what you were going to say to your Company. Bye for now.’

Phil Sharpe and Stan Atkins doffed their hats very politely to the assembled ladies of the cast, before walking purposely away up the gangway to the main door of the Welfare Hall, where they were to be let out by Big Tam. 

Five minutes later, they might have heard, above the noise of their car engine, the huge whoop that erupted from the assembled concert party artistes, when Brian relayed to them what had transpired. 

Urged by a committee anxious to get home, a very tired, but happy troupe: artistes, band members and stagehands, were throwing kit and personal belongings into the old battered bus that was their home from home. 

Sounds of singing drifted back as the vehicle left the village, making for a nearby good pub, a venue in which to celebrate what remained of a truly remarkable evening.

*

Inside the Welfare Hall, Jake Russell, Andrew Black and Big Tam were closing up for the night: putting out lights, checking that everything was safe. 

Andrew spoke first, as they stood in a group outside the locked front doors, ready to go their separate ways.

‘Whit dae ye think, Jake. Will this kind o' thing stay popular much longer?’

‘Hard to say, Andra. There's a lot more competition nowadays.’

Andrew persisted, ‘But, d'ye think these concert parties would be missed if they faded away?’

‘Naw, a' don't think so,’ Jake answered. ‘There's always something new comin' along. In fifty years time, naebody will remember them.’

Big Tam piped up: ‘Never mind all that. Did we make a bob or two for oorselves the night?’ 

Jake smirked, meaningfully. ‘Whit dae you think?’

♦♦♦

Well, there you have it all, readers, the sort of thing that went on in my childhood - and really enjoyable shows they were - well most of them anyway. 

I particularly remember one where a very inexperienced hypnotist made the people in his care do some very weird (and let's face it) not very hygienic things when assembled on stage.