Road to the Dales, The Story of a Yorkshire Lad

by Phinn, Gervase

  Goodness gracious, dearie me,

  Cinders' pony's done a wee.

  I do remember, however, the time when Buttons tried his hardest to get a little boy who sat in the middle of the front row to respond. We were at the end of the row so we had a bird's-eye view. The six-year-old stared at the action on stage with a deadpan expression, refusing to join in when everyone else was cheering and booing, shouting and singing. Every actor tried to get the child to react - Cinderella, the Fairy Godmother, the Wicked Stepmother, the Ugly Sisters, Baron Hardup - all to no avail. Buttons saw this as a personal challenge. He would run on to the stage with 'Hi Kids!' and all the children would shout back. 'Hi Buttons!' All, that is, except the child sitting in the middle of the front row with the impassive expression. Buttons began to look pointedly at the child.

  'I get really upset if children don't say "Hi Buttons",' he said sadly.

  'Aaaaah,' commiserated the audience.

  'And there's a little boy on the front row who hasn't said it yet.'

  'Aaaaah,' chorused the audience again.

  Still there was no response from the child, so Buttons left the stage, skipped down the steps leading to the auditorium and, taking the child's hand, managed to prevail upon him to join him on stage with a promise of a present.

  'Now, little boy,' he asked, 'what's your name?' The child stared at him in silence.

  Buttons tried another tack. 'Are you having a good time?' Still there was no response. Buttons persevered. 'Have you anything to say to Buttons?' The little boy looked up and replied in a deadpan voice, 'Does tha know summat, tha bloody daft thee,' and returned to his seat.

  On another occasion Simple Simon asked for some children to join him on stage. From the sea of waving hands he selected an angelic-looking little boy of about six. The child duly joined the actor on stage and was given the microphone.

  'You entertain the audience while I am gone,' Simple Simon told the child.

  The idea was that the child, standing in the centre of the stage nervous and alone and not knowing what to do, would generate a deal of laughter from the audience as he looked around apprehensively. Simple Simon had picked the wrong child. The little boy, not at all disconcerted by the full theatre, suddenly went into a stage act to rival the best stand-up comedian and much to the delight of a very appreciative audience.

  'I say, I say, I say,' began the child, and proceeded to tell a rather risque joke. There was a great round of applause. The boy continued. 'Have you heard the one about the Englishman, the Irishman and the Scotsman?' Simple Simon reappeared on the stage in quick time and grabbed the microphone from the budding comedian.

  'Thank you very much, little boy,' he said, laughing half-heartedly.

  'I've not finished,' protested the child, attempting to get back possession of the microphone.

  'Oh yes, you have,' said Simple Simon, escorting him off the stage.

  'Oh no, he hasn't!' chorused the audience.

  My father told me of another occasion, when the actor playing the pantomime Dame collapsed in the interval and had to be taken to Moorgate Hospital. The theatre manager appeared before the curtain prior to the commencement of the second act to announce: 'The actor playing the part of Dame Trot will not be appearing in the second half. He's been taken ill.'

  The audience in one great chorus shouted: 'Oh no, he hasn't!'

  'Yes, he has,' replied the manager in all seriousness.

  'Oh no, he hasn't!' the audience shouted back.

  'Oh yes, he has!' shouted the manager angrily.

  One afternoon just before Christmas, when I was ten, my father took me to see the pantomime at the Leeds City Varieties. We caught the train from Masborough station and walked through the city crowded with shoppers. It was one of the few very special occasions when it was just me and my Dad, no brothers or sister. The City Varieties is the oldest extant music hall in the country, an intimate, colourful and atmospheric little theatre, hidden between two arcades. All the greats of variety theatre have performed here: Charlie Chaplin and Houdini, Tommy Cooper and Hylda Baker, Marie Lloyd and Les Dawson and, of course, the legendary Ken Dodd, who takes some persuading to leave the stage once he's started. I appeared on stage there myself in 2006 in my one-man show and spent the intermission leafing through the visitors' book, fascinated by the many entries. Before my performance I stood on the empty stage looking down at the empty stalls and recalled a small boy sitting on a plush red velvet seat with his father, his eyes wide, entering a magical world of the pantomime.

  It was at Leeds City Varieties that I first saw the great Sandy Powell, who hailed from my home town of Rotherham, and heard his famous catchphrase, 'Can you hear me, Mother?' For a few weeks afterwards I would imitate this catchphrase at home, much to the irritation of my family, until my father put his foot down and said, 'That'll be enough!'

  Sandy Powell's comedy was clever, clean, inoffensive and hilariously funny. Part of his act was when he appeared on stage dressed in a soldier's scarlet tunic with pillbox hat askew on his head and holding a particularly ugly dummy, which was dressed identically. He was a hopeless ventriloquist and his dummy would often fall apart in his hands. His act was interrupted by a posh-sounding member of the audience, in real life his wife Kay.

  'Tell me sonny,' he asked the dummy in a deep throaty voice, 'where do you live and where were you born?'

  'I vass born in Volchergrankon,' replied the dummy.

  'Where was he born?' asked the woman.

  'Wolverhampton. Oh, I wish I'd have said Leeds. I'm glad it wasn't Czechoslovakia.'

  My first sortie on to the stage was when I was thirteen and at a school concert I performed a song which Sandy Powell made famous. I was accompanied on the piano by Mr Gravill, the music master. At Christmas I insist on singing this ditty at family gatherings, much to my children's embarrassment.

  When I was a right young lad

  My father said to me:

  'Seems to me tha's growin' up,

  Now what's tha goin' to be?

  It all depends upon thyself,

  It's only up to thee,

  I won't say much to thee ageean,

  But tek a tip from me.

  'Ear all, see all, say nowt,

  Ate all, sup all, pay nowt,

  It's a long time, remember

  From January to December,

  So 'ear all, see all, say nowt,

  Ate all, sup all, pay nowt,

  And if ever thy does summat for nowt,

  Always do it for theeself.'

  Until Mr Williams, my headmaster at secondary school, stopped me in the corridor and gave me the two tickets to see Sheridan's comic masterpiece, therefore, my experience of theatre was limited. After that I became hooked and would try to see as many productions as I could. I paid for the tickets by supplementing my pocket money by getting a paper round and digging Mr Pike's garden.

  My interest in the theatre flourished when I joined the South Yorkshire Theatre for Youth. This was an amateur dramatic society for young people, formed by the Head of the English Department at Wath Grammar School. Bill Hammond was a charismatic, larger-than-life figure - one of the world's enthusiasts, a brilliant teacher with a passion for theatre. Over the summer holidays, for two intensive weeks, he would give up a fortnight of his time to rehearse young actors from all over the south of the county for a production which would be staged the following September in Rotherham and Doncaster. Auditions and rehearsals took place at South Grove School, and many young hopefuls turned up one Saturday in July with prepared extracts to perform before Bill and his assistant producer, George Manchester, who was another Wath Grammar School English teacher. Although Mr Pike suggested to me that I might like to try my hand at acting and audition for a part, I was at that time far too under-confident. The caretaker at South Grove, Vic Globe, was the stage manager for the productions and he asked me if I would like to help him backstage. I readily agreed. I loved the cinema and the theatre, and any chance to be invol
ved first hand, albeit with an amateur production by a group of adolescents and only in a minor capacity, working behind the scenes, really appealed to me.

  I agreed to work backstage, looking after the props, helping with the lighting and the sound and generally assisting with anything that the stage manager asked me to do. I longed to join the young actors on the stage but was far too shy and reticent. They seemed so clever, self-assured and talented.

  On the first day of rehearsals - for the The Imaginary Invalid, a translation of Moliere's classic drama Le Malade Imaginaire - I watched fascinated from the wings as supremely confident young people demonstrated how adept they were at acting. Of course, being a menial backstage helper, I was not a part of the lively discussions which took place at breaks and lunchtimes between the budding actors. I would sit on the sidelines watching and listening. Everyone seemed to know everyone else and they were so bubbly and amusing, assertive and self-assured.

  On that first day the young actors entered into the drama with great gusto. They all seemed to know the theatrical terms I had never come across before: SM, ASM, Lampy, down stage right, up stage left, backdrop, wings, apron, flats, spots, gels, gobos, prompt corner, silvers, blacks - it was a whole new language to me. Most of the cast knew their lines pretty well word-perfect and were so much at ease on the stage.

  On the third day an extremely suave, rather pompous boy - I cannot recall his name, but I had observed him the previous day telling a group of adoring girls about being accepted at one of Oxford's oldest colleges to study Greek or something incredibly impressive - never turned up. Mr Hammond asked if I would oblige by reading the part of Dr Diaforus. This was a very meaty part. Dr Diaforus was a patronizing, arrogant and ambitious man who wanted his son, the dim-witted Thomas, to marry the rich daughter of his friend. I had a real stab at it, and after my rendition the producer took me aside and asked why I had not auditioned. 'You are very good,' he said, 'natural timing, a good ear for language and an excellent stage presence. Next year we'll find a part for you.' It was as if I had been awarded the 'Free Reader' badge again. I walked on clouds. I was even more ecstatic the following day when the producer told me Mr High-and-Mighty wasn't coming back and the part of Dr Diaforus was mine if I wanted it.

  I loved the rehearsals, the camaraderie backstage, the sharing of jokes and anecdotes, the assignations and the attention-seeking exhibitionism that surrounded me. I loved watching my fellow actors going through their paces, listening to the producer shouting out directions, the smell of the theatre, the bright lights, the mugs of hot sweet tea, the bacon sandwiches and fizzy lemonade in the dressing rooms. I had never before in my life felt so much a part of a group of entertaining people.

  We were all understandably nervous on the first night but it was thrilling: the rushing about, the hustle and bustle, the excited voices, the nervous conversations, the last-minute alterations to the costumes and, of course, the make-up. My face was transformed from a spotty youth's to an aged man's by the liberal use of Leichner theatrical make-up. The effect was startling. My face was darkened with Numbers 5 and 9, then wrinkles were painted on my forehead and an ugly mole added to my cheek, shadows appeared under my eyes and a thin black line was traced across my lower eyelashes. The final touch was the grey straggly beard. A long pigtail of grey crepe hair was teased out under the steam of the kettle, and the facial hair was stuck on with some evil-smelling sticky brown glue which made my face sting. A stick of carmine completed the effect and my lips changed to the colour of dried blood.

  'You look absolutely revolting,' said a fellow actor.

  'Thanks,' I replied, getting into my costume.

  The play was performed at the Rotherham Civic Theatre. In addition to the role of Dr Diaforus I was given the part of the Prologue. 'You do a very good patronizing look,' Bill told me, 'excellent at looking down your nose, and I like the way you strut. You will start the play off.' Dressed in dark blue pleated silk frock-coat, embroidered waistcoat with silver buttons, silk knee breeches, high-heeled black shoes with buckles, frilly cravat and ridiculously curly, shoulder-length wig, I was the first on stage, appearing before the curtain to introduce the drama.

  'Break a leg,' said the stage manager as I took a deep breath, ready to make my appearance. I had no idea what he meant. That first night it wasn't butterflies in my stomach but great kangaroos leaping up and down. I was terrified.

  To open the play on the very first night is daunting for any actor, however experienced and confident. I appeared under the spotlight to see the producer in the centre of the front row nervously rubbing his chin, eager parents, friends, the theatre critics from various newspapers (the Rotherham Advertiser, the South Yorkshire Times, the Sheffield Star, the Yorkshire Post), and row upon row of people watching and ready to judge. Off stage I knew that all the cast would be watching intently too, nervously preparing themselves for their own entrances. It was now up to me to set the scene.

  The single most enjoyable experience in appearing in that first play was the sense of elation before and after the performance. Every night my heart would race with expectation and be high with happiness. There is something very special and exhilarating about being a part of a company of actors backstage, listening to their exaggerated stories, how they try to outdo each other with anecdotes and jokes, listening to the accents they put on, and above all feeling the warmth of their companionship and of being part of a group of like-minded people.

  For the end-of-show party we young thespians donned a bewildering array of clothes. Let's face it, we were show-offs and this was the night when we were going to show off. I was sartorially ready and willing and arrived in a corduroy jacket with wide lapels and leather elbow patches (which had once belonged to my Uncle Alec), a mustard-coloured waistcoat with silver watch chain (minus the watch), a bright green bow tie (borrowed surreptitiously from my brother Michael) and green socks. I must have looked laughable, dressed like a young Oscar Wilde, but then everyone in the cast had dressed over the top. After all, we were actors.

  It was such a thrill to be part of that production of The Imaginary Invalid. Everything was so new, so different, so exciting, and my confidence blossomed. As a member of the cast I was no longer on the sidelines watching and listening - I was part of a group of lively, interesting and amusing young people. They readily included me in their conversations and sought out my opinions, laughing at my jokes and making me feel interesting and important.

  A girl called Jeanette had a minor part in The Imaginary Invalid, and after one show she told me she thought I was the best actor. Flattered, I asked her out. I decided that the corduroy jacket and bow tie were not the most appropriate garb for a night out at the 'flea pit', so reverted to tight black trousers, white open-necked shirt and lapel-less jacket (all the rage at the time). I Brylcreemed my hair, splashed on Michael's after-shave and polished my shoes.

  We sat on the back row at the Tivoli (where they had those double seats especially designed for courting couples) and watched The Beast from Twenty Thousand Fathoms. Freed from their Arctic home, where they had been in a state of suspended animation, great prehistoric creatures were brought to life by an atomic blast. One giant beast lumbered down the coast of North America, devastating everything in its path and causing widespread panic. It went out in a blaze of glory at Coney Island. From what my brother tells me about Coney Island today, it appears it still hasn't recovered from the devastation of the Beast of Twenty Thousand Fathoms. Today such films, with their wooden acting, amateur sequences, patently unrealistic dialogue, ludicrous sound effects and plastic models trundling across the screen, would make us laugh out loud, but at the time they were truly frightening. Jeanette clung to me the whole time like a Whitby limpet and we kissed, just before the lights came on and the National Anthem was played. Girls were now back in my life.

  42

  The following year I was given the part of Venturewell in The Knight of the Burning Pestle. This period piece by Beaumont and Fletcher, wri
tten in 1607, is a parody of plays about the romantic adventures of air-headed knights and of the theatre itself. Throughout the play, a well-to-do citizen and his garrulous wife keep interrupting with dim-witted comments and advice and insist on their apprentice playing the lead. The citizen was played by Peter Smith, who was able to perform an unnerving impersonation of Frankie Howerd. He peppered his lines with the outrageous comedian's catchphrases, 'Oo, no don't,' and 'No missis, titter not,' and 'Perleese madam, don't mock. Have some respect.' Peter was a natural comic but prone to excessive improvisation on and off stage.

  I was cast as another mean-minded, avaricious and thoroughly nasty old man who had great plans for his effete son to marry the rich and innocent daughter of a family friend. My son was portrayed by Bernard, a tall, long-haired and pale-faced boy who acted his part to perfection. He would stare vacantly into the middle distance sighing, wipe his brow dramatically, walk in an affected manner with short quick steps and swinging hips and deliver his lines in a high lisping voice.

  In one scene Peter had to evict the son from his master's house and did so rather too energetically. He poked him hard in the shoulder, pushed him roughly through the door and kicked him so hard on the backside that the poor boy was propelled a good distance across the stage. This performance was well received by the audience, which roared with laughter.

  'You really don't need to be so heavy-handed,' Bernard told him after the first night, as he removed his make-up in the dressing room. He rubbed his arm dramatically and pulled a pained face. 'I've got bruises.'