‘The Two-Legged Giraffe Show,’ Paul Royce corrected testily.
Charles said sorry, he didn’t listen to the radio that much and, anyway, what the hell was Walter doing at a matinee of a summer show in Hunstanton?
‘Ah, Charles, that brings me back to where I interrupted you. We’ve come down to see Bill Peaky. The project on which I’m working is a fifty-minute special with him. Bound to go to a series, should be very big. Paul here’s going to be doing some writing for the show.’
‘Not if Mr Peaky thinks the same of the rest of my material as he did of the first batch I sent,’ Paul Royce interjected sourly.
Proud was momentarily thrown. ‘That remains to be seen, eh? But, Charles, have you really not heard of Bill Peaky?’
‘’Fraid not.’
‘He came out of New Faces.’
‘Eh?’
‘The talent show that ATV do. He won the All-Winners. I tell you, he’s a very hot property. Going to be very big. We’re going to see him after the show, talk about our series.’
Music tinkled upwards from the pit. Most of the pensioners had been tucked into their seats. The show would be starting in a moment. Charles felt he should say something else and flicked through his mind for subjects. Oh yes, domestic life. ‘Angela and the girls well, Walter?’
‘Angela and I got divorced two years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Best thing, probably. I still see the girls at weekends. Sometimes. Work and. . er. . things permitting.’
‘Glad to see you and Frances are still together anyway.’
‘Yes. Oh. . er, yes.’ Frances’ hand found Charles’. He could feel it trembling with a suppressed giggle.
The lights began to dim and the noise from the pit grew louder. Walter leaned forward and hissed, ‘See you in the interval for a drink, eh? And maybe after the show we could go out for a meal or something. .?’ Charles remembered from their previous acquaintance that Walter suffered from the television man’s terror of being alone, the need to surround himself with people, to buy company with interminable expense account drinks, to extend every convivial evening as long as possible.
He didn’t take up the hint about a meal afterwards, but commented on the chances of an interval drink. ‘Likely to be tea, isn’t it? Bars won’t be open for a matinee, will they?’
‘Oh no, they won’t.’ Walter Proud leaned back in his seat. ‘No.’ He sounded deeply disappointed and Charles identified the smell that he had been conscious of since his conversation with the producer began. Neat gin.
The curtain of the Winter Gardens, Hunstanton, went up to reveal These Foolish Things. They turned out to be a dance group of four boys and four girls.
In fact, they were not just a dance group, but the latest in a long line of dance groups, all of which had been started by a choreographer called Chuck Sheba (known in the business as the Queen of Sheba). The first group he created was called The Young Things, who enjoyed reasonable success in television, cabaret and stage shows, until personnel changes and internal dissensions led to their disbanding and reforming as Some of Those Things and A Thing or Two. This process of binary fission continued so that these new amoeboid groups split again: Some of Those Things became The Thing-Songs and The Best Thing. These Foolish Things, the group in Hunstanton, were born from the break-up of The Best Thing. But they retained the three trademarks which distinguished all Chuck Sheba’s groups — namely, they all bought their smiles from the same shop, they all mimed to taped singing, and they all did the same dance. This dance consisted of kicking a bit, pointing quite a bit, turning round a lot and gyrating the hips a great deal.
And that was the dance to which the crumbling audience in the Winter Gardens, Hunstanton, was treated. On this particular occasion it was done to music called Do the Shuffle, but that didn’t make any difference.
The overamplified sound died as the eight dancers froze into a human fan. The lights were doused and the audience, against the odds, proved they were still alive by lurching into asthmatic applause. They then clutched their prescriptions in anticipation of the wonders of Karamba and Judy.
Karamba should have been billed as — and in fact made quite a scene with the local Entertainments Officer because he wasn’t billed as — Karamba, THE INTERNATIONAL ILLUSIONIST, and Judy. He appeared in a greening tailcoat and top hat and, with the help of Judy (an escaped traffic warden in darned fishnet tights), he ‘amazed the audience until they could no longer trust the evidence of their own senses’. The audience seemed in greater danger of losing the evidence of their senses in sleep than anything else. The tricks which Karamba performed were all right in their way (for people who like seeing coins disappearing into glasses of water, billiard balls passing through sheets of cardboard and strings of bunting being produced from escaped traffic warden’s ears), but they were accompanied by patter of such stultifying banality that sleep was the only refuge. Everything Karamba said was delivered in the same relentless monotone, regardless of meaning or audience reaction. If he was truly, as his publicity claimed, the INTERNATIONAL illusionist, it must have been by virtue of his ability to be dull in many languages. His finale, a long-drawn-out illusion which apparently involved the burning of a five-pound note reluctantly donated by a member of the audience, received the most diluted of applause.
Charles strained in the darkness to read what delights would follow, but his effort was unnecessary as the next act introduced itself.
The curtain rose on a lady in a long pale blue dress, cut high at the waist so as to push her bosom up into a mold like a soap dish. She was not over-endowed and her bosom was spread thin like a birthday cake run out of icing. The woman’s face was the sort that went out with ration books, dating back to the days when wives were called Rita and Valerie, and everyone looked like Vera Lynn. Her modern flowing hair style seemed only to heighten the anachronism.
‘Good afternoon, everybody,’ she trilled, ‘my name is Vita Maureen and I would like to sing for you a little bundle of songs, some of your old favourites, some right up to date, accompanied of course, by — on the piano — Norman del Rosa.’
A tubby gentleman in a red smoking jacket and an auburn wig twenty years younger than his face looked up from the keyboard to acknowledge his applause. Since there was none, he returned busily to his piano. He played flashy chords loudly, without any music in front of him.
Vita Maureen continued. ‘And first, in holiday mood, what could be more apt than that lovely number On a Wonderful Day Like Today. .’
As the wind which blew uninterrupted from the Urals vented itself against the exterior of the Winter Gardens, Charles could think of quite a few tunes more apt, but Vita Maureen was not to be daunted, and burgeoned into song.
It soon became apparent that she was one of those rare creatures who have gone out of fashion in popular music — a straight soprano. Not for her the transatlantic vowels and broken rhythms of pop. She sang everything like a teenager taking an Associated Board music exam. Every note was right and the interpretation was unsullied by the elaborations of pace and understanding. Everything she sang sounded the same. Her finale, Bring On the Clowns, was indistinguishable from My Secret Love, which preceded it. She was frozen like a defunct insect in the amber of musical comedy.
The warm applause of her superannuated audience suggested that they wanted to get back into the amber too.
The act which followed the lovely Vita Maureen and Norman del Rosa came from the opposite end of the musical spectrum. First, there was a longish delay, filled with thumps and muffled curses from on-stage, and then the curtain rose to reveal a pop group called Mixed Bathing.
Mixed Bathing was obviously a group in search of an image, which had tried to cover all its options by dressing each member in a different style. The lead guitarist/vocalist affected electric green satin trousers and a silver lame string vest. The rhythm guitarist wore a striped blazer and white flannels. The keyboard player had on a black leotard and top hat, while the drummer wore a complete army combat kit.