CHAPTER TWO. On The Town
Mary and I arrived in good time for the first house at the Alhambra. Truthfully, I always preferred the second house which was usually noisier and jollier, but this evening, even the first house was crowded, though I did manage to buy two good seats in the fourth row of the fauteuils as the front stalls were grandly known.
'I've never sat in the posh half a crown seats before,' said Mary, as she looked up admiringly at the plush velvet curtains which would soon be raised for the first of the evening performances.
We both enjoyed the deft juggling of the talented David Kent (though I inadvertently made Mary choke with giggling when I whispered, 'How on earth does he keep his balls in the air like that?') and we 'oohed' and 'aahed' in amazement at the clever conjuring of the Continental illusionist Simon Barber who produced rabbits out of a hat and white doves out of his inside jacket pockets.
Yet whilst I appreciated the surprisingly clear voice of Seamus O'Toole, a bibulous Irish tenor whose staggering gait convinced me of my initial impression that he was definitely performing in a semi-drunken state, the cloying sentimentality of his songs about lost sweethearts and poor old mothers way back home bored me. But I did perk up after the interval when a twinkling little 'naughty but nice' soubrette named Suzanne Moserre came on and sang Roly Poly For Mr.
Moley and You Can't Give Mother Any Cockles and I joined in the choruses with gusto. Fred Karno's troupe acted out a hilariously funny series of sketches and Mary and I laughed till the tears ran down our faces. After we applauded the company off the stage, I suggested to Mary that we skip the Bioscope and leave before the crush. She agreed and we walked the short distance up through Piccadilly Circus to the Jim Jam Club in Great Windmill Street. I signed Mary in as my guest at the Jim Jam, though I could not help thinking to myself that bringing a girl to the Jim Jam was like bringing coals to Newcastle, for a chap who could not find a female companion at the Club had to be soft in the head-and for good measure, soft in the cock as well! But the reason why I wanted to take Mary to the Jim Jam-though I still feel slightly ashamed about it- was that despite its louche reputation, the Club had a strict code of conduct by which its patrons had to abide. For example, all male members who wore a red pocket handkerchief in the top pocket of their jackets or female members who wore a red rose on their dress or in their hair, signified their wish to remain totally incognito and would thus not be acknowledged or approached even by their best friends. Needless to say, I was sporting a handkerchief of the brightest red! 'Shall we dine in the restaurant or shall we have supper in one of the private dining-rooms?' I asked Mary, and she immediately plumped for taking our meal in one of the salles arrivee. I ordered whitebait, mulligatawny soup, roast chicken and the chef's fruit compote and whilst we waited for our room to be prepared, we drank glasses of ice-cold white wine. Mary revelled in seeing in person such 'toffs' as Sir Roger Tagholm, Bernard Osborne-Stott, Louis Highgate and all the other men-about-town about whom she had read in the weekly illustrated magazines. Do the men only come here to play cards or billiards? They are all walking about unaccompanied,' she remarked, but even before I could answer, her face broke into a sweet, dimpled grin and she said, 'I suppose this is a place where they can meet their sweethearts and make mad passionate love in the upstairs bedrooms.' I returned her laugh and said, 'You may not be far from the truth, Mary but how did you know there are bedrooms at the Jim Jam?' 'I just guessed as much,' she retorted gaily, 'and Sir Roger Tagholm looks as if he will need one unless the lady he is talking to so intently is a known cock-teaser.' Looking across the hall I saw Sir Roger engaged in deep conversation with Lady Elizabeth Stompson who was wearing a blue dress with one of the most daring decolletage I have ever seen. Sir Roger, who was a foot taller than Lady Elizabeth, was peering down at the ripe swell of her breasts with undisguised lust as he whispered something in her ear which made her shriek with laughter. 'This is a really ritzy place, Rupert,' said Mary (I had earlier asked her only to address me as 'sir' in the house). 'But what goes on at the Victor Pudendum contest I see advertised on the noticeboard?'