changed gear abruptly. He was no longer recreating an old music hall act; he was modem, sharp, even slick. It was a great change from the old days. In the shows with Wilkie Pole he had been robust, optimistic, slightly self-important, always ready to put down his gormless partner. But now he had tried to break out of the old mould and find a style of his own. Charles regretted the change; he knew he shouldnât, but he would have liked a wallow in nostalgia.
However, the comedianâs opening patter echoed Charlesâ mood, so it was not without appeal.
âHello, how are you all doing out there? Comfy? Right. I tell you, those seats out there are unbelievably comfy. Old girl we had in earlier in the year found them so comfy she stayed in her seat for a fortnight.â A pause. âMind you, she was dead.â
Charles and Frances seemed to be the only members of the audience who laughed at that one. For the rest it was too near the truth.
âMatter of fact,â Barber continued, âwe get a lot of dead people coming to this show. Well, I
assume
thatâs why nobody laughs.â
âTalking of death, did you hear about the Irishman who tried to commit suicide by jumping off the top of the Empire State Building? He missed the ground.â
The preoccupation with death was not going down well with the audience. The act was dying on its feet. Lennie Barber changed gear. âActually, the place Iâm staying here in Hunstanton, the landladyâs a real character. First day I arrived I said, are the sheets clean? She said, yes, I washed them only this morning. If you donât believe me, feel them â theyâre still damp.â
From then on he was into the familiar territory of
Your Favourite Seaside Landlady Jokes.
The audience, which, like all audiences, felt more comfortable with jokes they had heard before, began to respond. The restraint remained, but there were a good few wheezy chuckles.
Charles found it strange. At the start Lennie Barber had had something, a certain attack, in spite of the audience apathy. But he had gone into the seaside landlady routine with resignation, performing on automatic pilot. Though the audience preferred this Identikit comedy, Charles, as a performer, could recognize that the comedian had opted out. His comic potential was being diluted to nothing. Just as age looked like a disguise on the real Lennie Barber, so did this undistinguished style of performing. In fact, to call it a style was a misnomer; it was lack of style that made it so colourless. But through the drabness of the performance, Charles could still feel the power coming across the footlights.
Lennie Barberâs modest ovation was followed by the return of These Foolish Things to do their dance again. This time they were miming to
When You Need Me,
though only an expert would have noticed. However, there was a more significant change. One of the unalterable precepts of the great Chuck Sheba was that all dance groups should comprise an equal number of boys and girls. And, whereas in the opening routine there had been four of each, there were now four boys and only three girls. The seven of them continued with their smiles screwed in as if nothing had happened, but one couldnât help noticing. Charles found it rather funny. Four men would stand in wait; three girls would cavort across the stage and launch themselves into their arms; three men would twirl round with their burdens; and the fourth would also twirl round, trying to look as if he had a girl in his arms too.
The absence of one of the girls was made the more obvious to Charles by the fact that the missing one was the prettiest. All of them had a kind of lacquered, manufactured beauty, but she had looked more authentically beautiful than the others. Long bouncy blonde hair, sweet childish face, trim figure. Charles had found his eyes constantly on her during the opening number and now she wasnât there, he felt
However, the comedianâs opening patter echoed Charlesâ mood, so it was not without appeal.
âHello, how are you all doing out there? Comfy? Right. I tell you, those seats out there are unbelievably comfy. Old girl we had in earlier in the year found them so comfy she stayed in her seat for a fortnight.â A pause. âMind you, she was dead.â
Charles and Frances seemed to be the only members of the audience who laughed at that one. For the rest it was too near the truth.
âMatter of fact,â Barber continued, âwe get a lot of dead people coming to this show. Well, I
assume
thatâs why nobody laughs.â
âTalking of death, did you hear about the Irishman who tried to commit suicide by jumping off the top of the Empire State Building? He missed the ground.â
The preoccupation with death was not going down well with the audience. The act was dying on its feet. Lennie Barber changed gear. âActually, the place Iâm staying here in Hunstanton, the landladyâs a real character. First day I arrived I said, are the sheets clean? She said, yes, I washed them only this morning. If you donât believe me, feel them â theyâre still damp.â
From then on he was into the familiar territory of
Your Favourite Seaside Landlady Jokes.
The audience, which, like all audiences, felt more comfortable with jokes they had heard before, began to respond. The restraint remained, but there were a good few wheezy chuckles.
Charles found it strange. At the start Lennie Barber had had something, a certain attack, in spite of the audience apathy. But he had gone into the seaside landlady routine with resignation, performing on automatic pilot. Though the audience preferred this Identikit comedy, Charles, as a performer, could recognize that the comedian had opted out. His comic potential was being diluted to nothing. Just as age looked like a disguise on the real Lennie Barber, so did this undistinguished style of performing. In fact, to call it a style was a misnomer; it was lack of style that made it so colourless. But through the drabness of the performance, Charles could still feel the power coming across the footlights.
Lennie Barberâs modest ovation was followed by the return of These Foolish Things to do their dance again. This time they were miming to
When You Need Me,
though only an expert would have noticed. However, there was a more significant change. One of the unalterable precepts of the great Chuck Sheba was that all dance groups should comprise an equal number of boys and girls. And, whereas in the opening routine there had been four of each, there were now four boys and only three girls. The seven of them continued with their smiles screwed in as if nothing had happened, but one couldnât help noticing. Charles found it rather funny. Four men would stand in wait; three girls would cavort across the stage and launch themselves into their arms; three men would twirl round with their burdens; and the fourth would also twirl round, trying to look as if he had a girl in his arms too.
The absence of one of the girls was made the more obvious to Charles by the fact that the missing one was the prettiest. All of them had a kind of lacquered, manufactured beauty, but she had looked more authentically beautiful than the others. Long bouncy blonde hair, sweet childish face, trim figure. Charles had found his eyes constantly on her during the opening number and now she wasnât there, he felt