Authors: Robin Pilcher
W
hen Rene Brownlow arrived the following evening at the Corinthian Bar in West Richmond Street, half an hour early for her first show, the last thing she felt like doing was standing up on a stage and being funny for an hour. The first wave of apprehension and homesickness had engulfed her the moment she got off the train onto the crowded platform at Edinburgh, and thereafter events conspired to reduce her fragile confidence to rubble. Not wanting to waste her scanty finances on a taxi, she had dragged the heavy Samsonite suitcase, bought for her by Terry Crosland at a car-boot sale, to her digs in Morningside, not realizing beforehand the two-mile distance nor the orienteering nature of her journey. The first part seemed to be interminably uphill from the station until she reached George IV Bridge, where there was eventual but momentary respite from the incline. Despite consulting the map that had been included in the package from the Fringe office, wrong turnings were frequent, and even though the streets were swarming with people, the majority of those from whom she breathlessly asked directions also turned out to be visitors to the city.
The woman who eventually responded to the third knock on the front door of the unspectacular little bungalow in Greendykes Terrace eyed suspiciously the plump figure with the bright red face that sat wheezing on the suitcase at the bottom of the stone steps.
“You’ll be Rene Brownlow, then,” she stated, folding her arms defensively across her fawn jerseyed bosom.
Rene had simply nodded, not having the essential breath left in her body to answer her.
“Right, I’m Mrs. Learmonth, your landlady. You’d better get yourself inside, and I’ll show you to your room.” Ignoring Rene’s load, the woman turned and walked back into the house.
As Rene used her last ounce of energy to carry the heavy suitcase double-handed up the steep staircase, Mrs. Learmonth stood on the top landing watching her ascend and barraging her with the endless rules of the house. Only one shower to be taken every day, and that between half past seven and eight o’clock in the morning; breakfast at nine o’clock on the dot; no visitors; no use of the house telephone, but she would give directions to the nearest call box; keep the noise down at all times; and the room should be vacated between the hours of eleven o’clock in the morning and three o’clock in the afternoon to allow for cleaning. When Rene cast a spirit-sapping eye around the small, sparsely furnished bedroom that had been built into the low sloping roof of the bungalow, she couldn’t quite work out why the tight-mouthed Mrs. Learmonth needed four hours to clean such a minute area. However, she was too exhausted to pass comment either on that or any of the other conditions, just wanting the woman to leave her alone so that she could rest her weary body on the low wooden-framed bed that looked more suited to the dimensions and weight of an undernourished pixie. Later on that evening, after she had picked at a near inedible meal of overcooked stew and boiled vegetables in Mrs. Learmonth’s dingy little dining room, with only the scraping of cutlery on willow-patterned plate to keep her company, Rene had stood in the littered telephone box three hundred yards from the house desperately trying to maintain her self-control when Gary’s quiet, laid-back voice had sounded at the other end of the line.
At precisely eleven o’clock that day, Rene had left the house, eager to get away from the place and even more eager to spend as little time there as possible, even though it meant facing the prospect of killing time in a strange city with little money. She sat for two hours on a bench at the top of the Meadows, watching the joggers and the people walking their dogs and the golfers practicing their swings; she walked all the way back to the High Street to locate the Fringe office and then tagged on to a small gathering which had formed around a brightly dressed young man who was shaping a dog out of balloons for a young toddler in a pushchair while she washed a tasteless ham sandwich down with a can of Coke; and when the sky clouded over and a bitter wind picked up, she sought out the warmth of a crowded pub where she sat alone at a corner table, trying to eke out the last inch of her half pint of shandy for as long as possible whilst reviewing her act in her head.
But it was to no avail. All day long, she had only been able to think of what Gary and the kids would be doing, picturing their weathered little house with its untidy garden in Bolingbroke Close. She thought of Stan Morris and his cronies sitting round their usual table in Andy’s, snapping down their dominoes and talking excitedly about what she, Rene, would be doing at that precise moment. She thought about what food she should be buying that week from the discount shelves in Morrison’s supermarket, and then her imagination took her across Marina Way and down to the end of Jacksons Landing, where the seagulls glided lazily on the wind, the riggings clinked against the tall masts of the yachts and the water lapped lazily against their sleek bows. And then she wished above all other wishes that, right there and then, she could somehow transport herself away from this alien city back to the familiar, warm-hearted surroundings of her own Hartlepool.
Taking in a deep steadying breath, Rene pushed open the heavy glass door of her venue and entered. The Corinthian Bar was obviously a new establishment, equipped from top to bottom with all things chrome. The tables, chairs, handrails, footrests below the bar all sparkled, reflecting myriad small low-voltage lights that were suspended from wires cobwebbing the ceiling. To the right of where she stood there was a small ticket booth with racks of coloured leaflets on its counter, advertising the forthcoming shows; and to the left, a flight of stairs that led down to the toilets and, as indicated by a temporary sign, to the theatre. The whole wall at the back of the stairs was covered with posters, all larger versions of the front covers of the leaflets. Rene took one of her own from a rack on the counter and glanced through it as she walked along the wide ceramic-tiled passage to the bar.
Whilst every other eating and drinking establishment Rene had passed that day seemed to be filled to capacity, the Corinthian Bar had barely any business at all. There were only about ten people in the place, two couples eating at tables, while the rest sat on stools or stood leaning on the dark granite surface of the bar. As Rene approached it, a young barman with gelled spiky hair came over to her, greeting her with a flick of his head.
“Hi there, what can I get ye?”
“Oh, nothing, thanks,” Rene replied. “I’m actually here to do a show.”
“Oh, right. Just hang on a minute then.” He scanned the floor with eyebrows furrowed as he tried to work out the whereabouts of a particular person, and then raised them as he saw a girl coming up the stairs. “Hey, Andrea!” he called over to her. “This is the woman who’s doing the show tonight.”
Rene felt immediately downhearted by the boy’s introduction. He didn’t call her a “comedienne,” or even by her name. Just “the woman.” She turned to watch Andrea approach, a sleek blonde who dressed to accentuate her elegant contours in a pair of black tight-fitting jeans and polo-necked jersey.
“Hi, you must be Rene,” she said, offering out a hand that gushed blood-red nails. She spoke in a twanging English voice with no softening trace of a regional accent.
“That’s right,” Rene replied with a smile, conscious of the podginess of her own hand when clasped in Andrea’s talon.
“Good. Well, look, I think the best thing is for me to take you straight downstairs and show you where everything is.” She turned on the stilettoed heels of her boots and Rene followed on behind her as she headed back along the passage and clipped her way down the stairs.
The grandly named “theatre” turned out to be nothing more than the pub cellar, hastily converted by way of a black backdrop being strung across the width of its combed ceiling. About ten plastic tables with matching chairs, two apiece, were crammed into the small auditorium, some sloping at weird angles because of the uneven flagstoned floor. The place was dingy, damp and stank of stale beer, and Rene was only thankful that it was brightly lit by two spotlights positioned on stands against the back wall, their beams focused on the microphone that stood in the centre of the backdrop.
“’Ow many people d’ye expect will be coming?” Rene asked flatly as she stood with her handbag hanging limply at her side and casting an eye over the paltry seating area.
Andrea crossed her arms over her neat little bosom. “It depends, really. We’re a bit off the beaten track here, but if the word gets round there’s a good show going on, then it can really fill up. Believe it or not, we’ve had as many as thirty people in here.”
The girl shot her such a bright, enthusiastic smile that Rene felt she had to muster up some sort of jovial response. “Oh my, that’s summat, in’t it?” she said, with the thought going through her mind that any wild hope of her “making it big” in Edinburgh had just spontaneously combusted.
“Of course,” Andrea continued, “it also depends on how well you’ve been able to publicize the show yourself.”
Rene looked at the girl questioningly. “’Ow am I meant to do that?”
Andrea’s smile faded away. “Have you not been handing out leaflets?”
“What d’ye mean?”
“Leaflets, like the one you have there. You should have been handing them out all day up on the High Street.”
Rene glanced at the leaflet in her hand. “I didn’t know that.”
Andrea raised her eyebrows. “How else do you expect anyone to come? That’s where all the punters are during the day. You’ve got to go up there and attract them.”
“Oh,” Rene replied quietly.
“Otherwise you could find yourself well out of pocket when the show comes to an end.”
Rene swallowed hard, feeling her cheeks suddenly glow with apprehension. “’Ow’s that, then?”
Andrea let out a sigh that gave off little sympathy. “Don’t you know about the conditions?”
“No, I don’t,” Rene replied quite forcefully, becoming irked by the girl’s attitude. “I didn’t arrange this ’ole thing. It was done for me.”
“All right,” Andrea countered defensively, holding up a hand to steady Rene’s mood. “I’ll explain then. We rent out the theatre to you for a fixed sum over the three weeks. If you don’t manage to cover that figure through box office takings, then you are liable for the shortfall.”
“And ’ow much does the theatre cost?”
“Seventeen hundred pounds.”
Rene stared at the girl with her mouth open. “Bloody Aunt Ada,” she exclaimed, as the figure flashed in her mind like a neon warning light. “That means…” She looked around the room, counting the seats, trying to calculate what chance she might have of bringing in that amount of money. Twenty times, say five quid a ticket, gives a hundred quid a night; times twenty-one nights equals…just over two thousand pounds! And that was with a bum on every seat! “Oh, bloody Aunt Ada,” she said again, rubbing a hand at her forehead. “That’s damned near impossible! I don’t suppose there’s a chance I could do an afternoon performance as well?”
Andrea shook her head, her eyes almost managing to register kindly concern. “’Fraid not. The theatre is booked morning, noon and night.” Her look brightened in encouragement. “But it does mean you’ll have the whole day to hand out leaflets and woo your audience. And then, of course, you might get a brilliant review in one of the papers and find yourself playing to a packed house every night.”
“I s’ppose,” Rene replied unhopefully.
The voice of the barman rang down the stairs. “Andrea, there’s a couple of people waitin’ here tae buy tickets.”
Andrea glanced at her wristwatch and walked over to the door. “On my way!” She turned back to Rene. “If you could be ready to start in about ten minutes…” She nodded her head towards the backdrop. “I’m afraid it’s a bit cramped behind there, but you’ll find a small table with a mirror if you want to get yourself made up or whatever.” She cast a look at Rene’s handbag. “I don’t suppose you use your own props or anything.”
Rene shook her head. “No. What ye see is what ye get.”
Andrea shrugged her shoulders as if signifying there was nothing further she could do to help Rene. “All right. I hope it goes well, then. Billy will be down shortly to make sure the sound system is working properly.” And she swung round on her sharp-heeled boots and left the comedienne to her fate.
Rene’s first show was played to a grand audience of five, and despite the glaring spotlights she could tell from the moment she took up her position at the microphone that at least three of them were foreigners. From their reaction to her first joke, which had never before failed to produce a roar of hilarity, it was also quite apparent that what ability they had to understand the English language did not stretch to the complexities of a North Yorkshire accent. During her performance Rene struggled to raise one good laugh, finding herself having to fill in the dreadful silence between jokes with feeble ad-libs that fell on her own ears like an appalling speech impediment. As she watched two of her audience noisily scrape back their chairs and make their way towards the door halfway through her act, it took every ounce of concentration to keep talking and not to silently gawp at them as they departed. After forty-five long minutes, during every second of which she wished the greasy flagstone floor would open up and devour her hopelessly unfunny self, she called an end to her suffering fifteen minutes early. She waited behind the backdrop until her remaining audience quickly made their exit, and then came out and sat down at one of the tables in the deserted theatre. Covering her face with her hands, she relived every cringe-making moment of the show and wondered to herself how on earth she was going to be able to take another three weeks of similar disasters.
“How did it go?”
Rene dropped her hands to the table and turned to see Andrea’s smiling face pop round the side of the door. Rene bit at her lip and slowly shook her head.
“Don’t worry,” Andrea said as she flicked off the switch of one of the spotlights. “First one’s always the worst. Once you’ve got used to the intimacy of the theatre here, you’ll find it much easier.”