Bryant & May 01; Full Dark House

∨ Full Dark House ∧

45

IN THE DEVIL’S COMPANY

The audience was resplendent in evening dress, but most members were carrying gas-mask boxes. They were as Helena Parole had predicted, culturally more diverse, livelier and younger than the lethargic Home Counties brigade who usually attended operettas – perhaps reflecting that this was not in any sense a classical production. Eurydice’s opening striptease and virtually naked seduction by an outrageously priapic Aristaeus saw to that.

The single intermission occurred between the second and third tableaux, and listening to the exhilarated hubbub in the building’s bars, Bryant judged the production to be a hit – more, a sensation. The crowd made him feel claustrophobic. He descended the grand staircase and wandered out into the lobby. The bow tie he had donned for the occasion was strangling him. Few playgoers had ventured down here because the night was so cold. He nodded to PCs Atherton and Crowhurst, who were meant to be acting as security on the entrance but found themselves holding back a ragged line of irate demonstrators. Rain was falling hard from dark, low clouds, and that meant a cloak of safety for the theatre.

“We’re going to need more men if this goes on every night, sir,” warned Crowhurst.

“They’ve got their own security people coming in on Monday.” Bryant studied the placards pinned to the steel barriers. BAN THIS PAGAN SHOW NOW. THOU SHALT HAVE NO OTHER GOD BUT ME. And more peculiarly, LESS LUST THROUGH LESS MEAT AND SITTING. This makeshift placard was displayed by a soaked young man in a corduroy cap who looked as though he would rather be somewhere else, preferably in a pub.

A mobile anti-aircraft gun had been placed on the opposite corner for the last two days, but now this reminder of danger from the skies had been moved away to higher ground. The theatre had been banned from spotlighting its exterior, and was forced to content itself with displaying a large OPENING TONIGHT! banner.

“They’re all out this evening,” sighed Bryant. “I’m surprised we haven’t got any Band of Hope ladies.” Temperance women were known to turn up at any public event to extol the evils of alcoholism.

“There were a couple chucking eggs here earlier, sir,” said Atherton. “One lady punched Mr Woolf on the nose and called him a dirty darkie. None of ‘em has gone in to the show, they just heard that saucy bit about it on the wireless. You’d think they’d have something better to do with their time.”

Bryant strolled over to the box office, where Elspeth was closing up for the night.

“Have you heard from Miss Petrovic yet?” she asked anxiously, hauling a bagful of leeks from behind her counter. She had permed her hair into an unflattering helmet of Medusan curls for the occasion.

“Not a word.”

“I do hope she’s all right. There’s been talk about sea mines being dropped by parachute down the Old Kent Road. Sea mines! Apparently they blow up sideways and take out all the houses. I feel sorry for anyone over there tonight.”

“It seems quiet in town,” said Bryant, “what with the rain.”

“I’m worried they’ll shut the production down. The Archbishop of Canterbury says we’re all going to go to Hell, and that the only practical solution is to pray.”

“Oh, he always says that,” said Bryant. “The moment he finds something people enjoy, he’s on the wireless faster than a cat up a Belgian, telling us all to stop doing it at once. Is everyone accounted for from your side of the house?”

“It would appear so, although I can only check the ushers and FOH staff. You’d have to go back to the stage door and see Stan about the sign-in book, but I think they’ve got a full complement.”

“No unfamiliar faces, then?”

“No, we know everyone. Mr Mack had to locate two more stagehands because a lot of the scenery has to be shifted manually. They’re a father and son team who know the understage area well. He bribed them away from the Duke of York’s.” She locked the box office and pocketed the keys. “We’re having drinks up in the balcony green room after the performance. You’re welcome to join us.”

“I thought everybody had to be out quickly.”

“Yes, but it’s traditional on opening night.”

“You know, I’ve walked around this place for a week now,” said Bryant, “and the running of it is still a mystery to me.”

“Some people never get used to it. I’ve been at the Palace most of my life and I still get lost. I never venture down to the lower levels because the lights are scattered all over. You have to keep trying different switches as you make your way across, but half of them don’t work, and you need to know where they are in the first place. Then of course there’s the well. Everyone knows it’s hazardous so they just stay away from the area.”

“Are there any parts of the building you haven’t visited?”

“I’ve never been to the upper gantry levels, and certainly not to the grid. You can only access that via a drop-ladder, and I’ve no head for heights. Hardly anyone has been up there in years, but a couple of the stagehands had to get up there to refurbish the blockand-tackle system. You forget how big the Palace is. It’s hemmed by three roads and a circus, all exactly as it was when Mr Sullivan was here.” A bell sounded above them. “That’s my signal. I’m not keeping the box office open once the second act starts, no matter what Mr Renalda says.”

“He wanted you to keep it open?”

“Until the end of the performance and for twenty minutes beyond. I told him absolutely not. We never have in the past, and he has no authority to change my hours because we work for different companies.”

“Of course, you’re with the theatre management, not the company production,” remembered Bryant. “Tell me about the pass doors again. You said there are two of them.”

“Yes, but as I explained, we lost the keys to the left-hand one. The right side still works, but not many people use it. There’s no need, when you can go around to the stage door and access the backstage area that way.”

“But you’d have to pass at least one permanently posted member of staff to do so,” said Bryant thoughtfully. “Who has a key to the pass door?”

“There are two, but they have to be signed out by Geoffrey Whittaker. He keeps hold of both of them.”

“Are you aware of him signing them out at all?”

“Not to my knowledge, but you’d better check with him. Are you going to watch the rest of the show?”

“Thank you, I saw it earlier in the week.”

“Yes,” Elspeth agreed, “but you haven’t seen it with the applause in.”

“My partner’s prowling around the building with his henchmen, so I suppose I could spend a little time in the devil’s company after seeing Mr Whittaker.”

“You can slip into the rear stalls box,” she said, leading the way. “It used to be a cigar booth before it was converted to hold chairs. The sightlines are pretty poor because the ceiling of the dress circle cuts so low. We didn’t open it tonight because Geoffrey’s storing stuff from dressing room two in it. We’ll have to, though, if Orpheus proves popular.”

“I think that’s a pretty safe bet, don’t you?”

“It’s bad luck to discuss it before the reviews appear, but yes, I have a feeling we’re in for a very long run indeed. Mr Renalda will be able to make good on his promise.”

“What promise is that?”

“Why, to run on right through the war.” Elspeth looked at him oddly. “I thought you knew. He came round to tell us that he’s done a deal with someone in the Home Office, not to let the bombs close us down. It’s going to be good for public morale. ‘Britain Can Take It’ and all that. That’s why the Lord Chamberlain won’t touch us. Apparently, Miss Parole will cover up a couple of the girls, take out some of the ruder lines, but we’ll stay open right through to the bitter end, barring a direct hit.” She smiled nervously. “You could say it’s the first time theatre folk have ever prayed not to have a hit.”