The Fun Factory

by Chris England

  “Billy Wragg’s mother?” Charlie said with a sneer. “Who will believe her?”

  “Oh, come on, catch up!” I laughed. “As if Billy Wragg would send his mother to meet you. Do you not recall my friend Mr Ralph Luscombe? He has stood you supper many a time.”

  The gypsy removed her bonnet and a tangled grey wig to reveal a slicked back gentleman’s barnet, and a stark line across the forehead where the edge of the wig had been. Pale white male forehead to the North, and weather-beaten walnut make-up and fake warts to the South.

  “What ho, Charlie!” Luscombe cried. Then to me he said: “I thought that went rather well, didn’t you?”

  “I liked ‘frit’,” I said. “That was most convincing. And ‘me ducks’, that was excellent.”

  “Yes, I was pleased with those suggestions, from our local friend the stage doorman, no less.”

  “I wondered about ‘chaps’, though. You said ‘chaps’ rather often, and it didn’t quite strike right.”

  “Do you know, I wondered about that too,” Charlie said, bitterly. “I never dreamed for a moment that it was you, though. It made me wonder if the woman had perhaps fallen on hard times from something higher, you know? Congratulations, my friend! You are quite wasted in the import-export business. Johnny Doyle should look to his laurels.”

  Luscombe glowed. “Thank you! Coming from you that’s … well, I am overwhelmed!”

  They shook hands, the two of them. Quite sporting of Charlie, actually. I clapped him on the back. “Well, you look like you could do with a drink. Shall we adjourn?”

  I led Chaplin off to the pub on the corner, which we had frequented during our week in Nottingham the previous autumn, while Luscombe trotted round to the stage door of the theatre. We had bribed the stage doorman to let us use a dressing room, some make-up and the street crone get-up from the Shaw play, whichever one it was. Cost us a couple of pints, that’s all.

  In the pub we settled into a booth, where I got on the outside of a pint of Marston’s, and Charlie sipped a large port as per.

  “Aaaaahh!” I said, a large sigh of satisfaction.

  “So?” Charlie asked. “Are you going to tell me the purpose of that little charade?”

  “I needed to know, that’s all,” I said.

  “To know,” he said, wary.

  “I already knew that you shopped me and Tilly to Syd in Warrington,” I said. “I knew you did it to put me off when the Guv’nor came to inspect us. I knew that you took up with Tilly in secret – well, we already had that one out in Paris, didn’t we?”

  “I’ll drop her,” he said quickly. “You can have her, I’ll give her back.”

  I laughed. I could hardly wait to tell her he said that! “I don’t think she’d take very kindly to being passed around like a piece of luggage,” I said. “But anyway. I knew that orang-utang Moulden was a friend of Syd’s, and I knew that he’d been sent to heckle me and Stan to help you, so I was interested to hear just now that you know him too. Very interested.”

  Charlie sipped his port, and wouldn’t meet my eye.

  “Of course, who better to tell him the precise moments to cut in so as to do the most damage? There was something else about that night at the Oxford that was niggling away at me, though. When my knee was broken by that oaf Wragg, and I was carried from the stage, you suddenly sprang from the wings to continue the performance in my place, did you not?”

  “You would have done the same for me, I’m sure.”

  “But that was only a matter of moments later. And yet I saw you between the shows, in the bar, in your own clothes, not in Stiffy’s costume. How could you have had time to run around backstage, find your costume, get changed, and leap out to save the day, all in the time it took to shovel my sorry carcass out of the way? How could it be done?”

  Charlie said nothing.

  “You knew, that’s how. You knew it was going to happen, so you were ready. Now I wanted to know if you had paid Billy Wragg to break my knee. Actually, your turning up at all in response to that letter was proof enough for me, but it was nice to hear it from your own lips.”

  “You wrote the letter, of course?”

  “I did, and Ralph posted it. He’s been here for a couple of days. His family’s firm has an office here, so it all worked out rather well.”

  “I didn’t mean… I mean… I was horrified by what happened… I…”

  “Save it,” I said. “Not interested.”

  Chaplin took a sip of port, his eyes calculating. “What are you going to do?” he asked, flatly.

  “Well, now,” I said. “Alf Reeves is taking you to America, right?”

  Charlie nodded carefully.

  “And Tilly is going too?”

  Charlie nodded again.

  “And Mike Asher? And Stan Jefferson? And Albert Austin?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not me. Now why would that be, I wonder? I’m one of the gang, aren’t I?”

  Charlie looked at me coldly. “But why? Why do you even want to go?”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to America,” I said. “It’s the Land of the Free, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but … I’m sorry, what I meant was, after what we were just talking about, I can’t believe you’d want to go with me.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “You aren’t going.”

  That stopped him dead in his tracks. He gave a little gasp. “I’m not going?” he said eventually.

  “You’re not going.”

  “And how am I to explain that, pray?”

  “You don’t have to explain it. Just miss the boat.”

  “Just miss the boat. Oh, you mean rehearse the show, behave for all the world as if I’m looking forward to going, and then … just miss the boat?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Madness!”

  “Nonetheless.”

  “And if I don’t go along with your lunatic scheme?”

  I leaned in towards him, and fixed him with a beady glare. “I’ll finish you,” I said.

  34

  THE WOW WOWS

  JUST as I was working my devious scheme to land myself a berth on the ship to America, Mr Wal Pink’s great plot to topple the Guv’nor from his perch on the topmost rung of the music hall ladder came tumbling down around his ears.

  Pink stormed into the Fun Factory one afternoon, is how we heard it, to beard the mighty lion in his den. He was fuming, and as soon as he caught sight of Karno’s innocently enquiring expression he blew his top.

  “You have shut me out of every theatre in the country, sir! Damn me if I know how ye’ve done it! But I ask you – is it fair, is it honest, is it reasonable?”

  “Is it reasonable, Mr Pink? Is it reasonable to approach a man’s employees and try to bribe them to break a legally binding contract with him?”

  Karno wore a chilling half-smile, and a frisson of fear crackled around the Fun Factory, flitting like ball lightning between all those listening in, some of whom – maybe all – had taken Pink’s money. The Guv’nor knew! He knew!

  “Somehow!” Pink spluttered, caught out. “Somehow you have done this thing! And I tell you squarely that I regard it as conduct unbecoming a gentleman, an artist and a fellow Wow-wow-water Rat!”

  With that, he turned on his heel and left, accompanied by the sound of his own footsteps, and his challenge to Karno’s supremacy – not that it had ever amounted to a very great deal – was at an end.

  What Karno had done, quite simply, was let it be known by all the theatre owners and managers that Pink was planning to deal with, that if they ever booked in a sketch by a Wal Pink company they would never again see a Karno outfit on their premises. And how did he know which ones were listening favourably to Pink’s overtures? Why, George Craig told him, of course. George Craig, who was so ostentatiously ‘sacked’, then quickly snapped up by Wal Pink, made privy to all his plans, and then returned to the Guv’nor’s welcoming embrace.

  “The matter is in hand,” he’d said,
hadn’t he?

  “You have to get up pretty early to put one over on the Guv’nor,” I remarked to Stan when we heard about this.

  “What time?” Stan said.

  Now Karno had any number of shows in his locker that would have had America rolling in the aisles. There was Jimmy the Fearless for a start off, that was practically a love poem to the place. There was good old Mumming Birds, of course, which had been playing successfully over there for at least four years.

  But no. Karno had got it into his head that America was positively teeming with secret societies, and so he had devised a new piece in which a fellow is put through all sorts of ridiculous trials at a campsite by a river in order to gain entry to one. He named it The Wow Wows, a little dig at the Water Rats, and the delicious memory of Wal Pink’s exasperated stuttering.

  And Pink got his revenge eventually. You remember I mentioned the very first Royal Command Performance, in 1912? And the notable absentees on that prestigious occasion, Karno amongst them? Well, guess who was one of the producers charged with booking the acts by their majesties. King Rat Mr Wow-wow-Wal Pink himself.

  The main character in The Wow Wows, fortunately for Charlie, was a version of the stock posh buffoon Archibald Binks. Syd had gamely devised no end of ghastly puns and silly business which Charlie could slavishly copy, and it was just as well, because Charlie wasn’t exactly throwing himself into rehearsals with a will. He had fallen into a black mood, listless, not taking care of himself, not shaving, turning up once for work in carpet slippers and the trousers from his pyjamas under his coat. We’d all seen this before, of course, when he was pining for Hetty, and again after his disappointment in Warrington. I knew what was getting him down this time, of course.

  Poor Alf Reeves was tearing his hair out at Charlie’s performance. The American tour was a big deal for him. I don’t think I’d realised how perilously close his relationship with the Guv’nor had come to breaking point. If you think the Guv’nor was not perfectly capable of being a fellow’s best man and then sacking him before the same summer was out, then I haven’t described him well enough. In short, Alf needed a hit.

  “Take Charlie to the pub, snap him out of it,” he’d say, and I would dutifully make the offer, but he wasn’t to be tempted, of course.

  I, on the other hand, was in mighty fine fettle. Stan, Mike and I chattered excitedly about America, and how grand it was all going to be, how much we looked forward to it all. Added to this, Tilly was exhibiting a definite thawing towards me, and from time to time she would join us in the pub after work as part of the gang, almost like the old days. Of course, once we were there we invariably talked about whatever could be the matter with Charlie, but it was a step in the right direction.

  On the Saturday evening before we were to leave I headed up to the Enterprise in a fine mood to collect my last wage packet in the King’s pounds sterling. Charley Bell and Freddie K junior were walking up Coldharbour Lane with me, as we’d just travelled up from Streatham on the same tram.

  “I wish to God I were going with you,” Freddie kept saying. “I’ve about had a bellyful of theatre administration, I’m telling you.”

  “Maybe your father knows what he’s doing,” Charley consoled him. “It’s as well to have a trade of sorts that you can fall back on.”

  “Exactly,” Freddie said heatedly. “I’d like to have it to fall back on, not to be stuck actually bloody doing it fifty-two weeks of the year.”

  He had the supers to deal with over at the Fun Factory, and Charley went along to keep the lad company, so we went our separate ways at the corner of the street and I sauntered over towards the pub.

  I didn’t make it there, though.

  Halfway across the road I glanced up, and there, leaning on the big outside window sill with a tankard in hand, was the man Moulden.

  I stopped in mid-stride. It was definitely him. I’d have recognised that nose anywhere. I prepared to take to my heels, but just then he spotted me.

  “There!” he bellowed, pointing straight at me. To my horror, three other burly fellows also set down their drinks and began to give chase. He’d brought some mates with him! Or maybe they were second mates, or stewards, or bandsmen, who knows? I didn’t hang about to find out, I just legged it as fast as I could back down Coldharbour Lane.

  Moulden and his chums were quite sprightly for big lads, and I was still hampered by my painful knee. I realised quite quickly that I wasn’t going to make it back to the crowded hubbub of the Brixton Road, where the dozens of eyewitnesses might have given them pause, so when I saw my chance I ducked down a side alley between a couple of shops. I stayed still in the shadows there, and heard the clatter of four big pairs of boots as they rushed by.

  I tiptoed back up to the street end of the alley and peeked out with a single eye. I thought I might be able to double back to the sanctuary of the Enterprise before they worked out where I was. No such luck, though!

  They had reached the corner of the block, and then stopped, realising that I had given them the slip. Now they were coming back towards me, checking each entrance as they came. I retreated down the alleyway to seek refuge, but sadly the outlook was less than promising. The alley opened out into a square back yard, shared by two shops. The walls were at least eight feet high, certainly too high for me to scale quickly, and there were some rubbish bins, which would perhaps give me cover for about four seconds, maybe five. I started to drag the bins to the back wall to use them as a leg-up, but it was hopeless.

  “’Ere’s our rabbit, lads!” came a shout.

  I turned to face them as they walked slowly into the yard, enjoying the anticipation of the mayhem to come. Moulden’s pals spread out behind him to either side. Two of them had something hanging from their hands, little ugly-looking weapons, like little black cloth bags of shot. One fellow was clearly going to be relying on his bare hands, which were absolutely massive, while Moulden himself had got hold of a piece of wood about two feet in length.

  “Mr Moulden,” I said nonchalantly, and his eyebrows shot up when he realised I knew his name. “Brought your sisters with you, I see.”

  This brought a growl from the largest of the monsters behind. I tried the only spin of the dice I could think of.

  “I’m sure your employers at the Union-Castle Line will be most interested to hear how you spend your leisure time,” I said.

  Moulden’s eyes narrowed as he took that in. I knew more about him than he thought I did. But then he smiled, a nasty, mean-spirited smile which spread out beneath his grotesque twinglobed nose.

  “You ain’t a-going to be tellin’ ’em anything,” he sneered. “Is he, boys?”

  His cohorts growled their agreement. I suspected this wasn’t the first beating they’d worked on together. They were a nice cohesive unit.

  “Let me tell you what we were a-thinkin’ of,” Moulden drawled nastily, tap-tap-tapping the palm of his hand with his piece of wood.

  “Please,” I said, all politeness.

  “We thought we might start on your leg. Not the one which so unfortunately was broken by that there footballer. No, not that one. The other one. The good one…”

  I smiled and nodded, affecting a casualness which I did not feel. This was going to be awful.

  “Then perhaps we’ll start on your face. Your face is by way of bein’ your fortune, after all, Mr Actor Man.”

  I sighed. America, that’s what I was thinking, wistfully, just at that moment. It was almost as if I could see the coastline of the New World drifting slowly away from me, further and further into the distance.

  “Shall we, gentlemen?” Moulden said, and his burly chums hunched forward, eager for the action to begin.

  Moulden took a step towards me. I balled my fists, resolved to get a few good shots in at that great hooter before they took me down.

  He swung his wooden bar back, ready to lunge, and then…

  Footsteps, blessed footsteps, hurrying down the alley towards us! And a whistl
e!

  The sailors turned, and parted, so that I could see that salvation had arrived in the shape of a couple of police constables, who were galloping breathlessly down the narrow passageway, backed by a number of interested local citizens.

  “Now then!” cried the older of the two officers. “What’s going on ’ere then?”

  “Nothing,” Moulden muttered. “Just some old friends having a friendly chat, is all.”

  “I assure you, officers, that it was very far from friendly. These gentlemen intended to do me serious harm.”

  “Oh-ho! Is that so?” said the senior constable.

  “What, this? No, no…” said Moulden, dropping his makeshift club. His chums followed his lead, and let their weapons fall to the ground. “It’s all a misunderstanding.”

  “It’s a very serious business, that’s what it is,” said the younger constable, pushing the end of his truncheon up against the end of Moulden’s nose, which was a touch I very much approved of.

  “Even so, no actual harm seems to have been done, so I am inclined to let you be on your way, unless this gentleman insists on taking the matter further. Do you, sir?”

  I held the moment, ever the professional, and then said grandly: “No, you may release them.”

  I had no more desire to traipse down to the police station than Moulden and his mates had, and besides, I had recognised PC Charley Bell and PC Freddie Karno junior, as well as the uniforms from Jail Birds, so I judged that all in all we might have been greeted with some puzzlement once we got there.

  Moulden slunk past me and down the alley towards the street. As he did so he leaned over to me, his beery breath filling my perfectly formed nostrils, which must have been such a provocation to him, and he said: “Tell Syd he still owes me. Right?”

  Once out on the street again, Charley and Freddie sternly watched the sailors on their way, tapping their truncheons against their palms in the approved manner. Once we were sure that they were gone we burst out laughing, patting each other on the back, and positively panting with relief.