Rosy Is My Relative

And so Adrian and Etbelbert got Rosy into the lean-to shed where Ethelbert made his elderberry wine, having first carefully removed anything that had the slightest alcoholic content. Then, going back into the house and up to the loft, Ethelbert drew back the chintz curtains displaying on one side an enormous brass double bed with a canopy over it, and at the other end an extremely uncomfortable looking trestle bed.

  ‘You may take your choice,’ he said, ‘but I always sleep in the double bed.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Adrian. ‘Um, actually I’m a very bad sleeper, so I think I’ll take the other bed.’

  ‘As you like,’ said Ethelbert cheerfully, ‘as you like.’

  Adrian decided, as he was dropping off to sleep, that the sight of Ethelbert Cleep in a long white nightshirt, a Japanese kimono and a night-cap with a tassel, was one that would live with him for many days to come.

  The following morning when Adrian awoke, he found that Ethelbert had been up for some time and had prepared a substantial breakfast. An enormous, volcanically bubbling pot of porridge with thick cream and sugar, and a huge plate of bacon as brown and as crisp as autumn leaves and just as fragrant, almost covered with great golden fried eggs and piles of large mushrooms like strange fleshy edible umbrellas running with black juice.

  ‘I think it always advisable to start the day with a good breakfast,’ said Ethelbert earnestly. ‘After all, one must consider one’s art, and it requires a lot of both mental and physical energy to get inside the part that you are playing.’

  ‘Incidentally,’ said Adrian, with his mouth full, ‘what part are you playing?’

  ‘One of the Sultan’s harem,’ said Ethelbert without batting an eyelid. ‘It’s a very exacting part.’

  Later, when they had done the washing-up, Ethelbert dressed himself in his outdoor clothes, which consisted of an Inverness and a deer stalker cap of mammoth dimensions. Then they hitched Rosy to the trap and made their way into the town.

  Adrian was astonished when he saw the theatre. Although Ethelbert had told him that it was a large one, he had no idea quite how large, and the facade with its Doric columns, its flying buttresses and Gothic windows, argued that Mr. Clattercup must have acted as his own architect.

  ‘I told you it was big,’ said Ethelbert in triumph, delighted at Adrian’s astonishment. ‘Darling boy, it’s something they’d be pleased to have even in the city, and I’ll let you into a secret.’

  He paused and looked round furtively. There was nobody within earshot apart from Rosy, so he leant forward and whispered in Adrian’s ear:

  ‘It’s got a revolving stage!’

  He stepped back to see the effect his words would have on Adrian.

  ‘Revolving stage?’ said Adrian. ‘The man must be mad.’

  ‘He is, darling boy,’ said Cleep. ‘It’s a deadly secret. We are going to astonish the audience on the first night, so don’t tell a soul.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Adrian, ‘but I still think he’s mad. It must have cost him a lot of money.’

  ‘This,’ said Cleep, waving his hand at the architectural conglomeration that confronted them, ‘is Clattercup’s last great work. This is the monument that he has built for himself so that he will go down in history. Now, you wait here with Rosy, dear boy, while I go in and see him.’

  Adrian and Rosy waited patiently out in the road for half an hour or so until out of the theatre flitted Ethelbert, followed by a tubby little man dressed somewhat incongruously in a cutaway coat and striped trousers.

  ‘Adrian,’ said Ethelbert, ‘this is Emanuel S. Clattercup, our mentor.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said the mentor. ‘’ow do?’

  ‘I am very well, thank you,’ said Adrian, shaking hands. ‘Understand you want a job,’ said Clattercup, peering somewhat nervously at Rosy.

  ‘Well, yes, if it were possible,’ said Adrian. ‘I thought that since you were doing Ali Baba a little bit of Eastern pomp might be in keeping, and Rosy’s quite used to wearing trappings and so on.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Clattercup, ‘well, she would be, wouldn’t she, coming from er . . . from eh . . . coming from where she does.’

  ‘She behaves,’ said Adrian, colouring slightly at the falsehood, ‘extremely well and I’m sure that she would lend a certain something to your show.’

  ‘Je ne sais quoi?’ suggested Ethelbert.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Clattercup suspiciously.

  ‘It’s French for I don’t know what,’ explained Ethelbert.

  ‘What jew mean, you don’t know what?’ said Clattercup. ‘What I mean,’ said Ethelbert, ‘is that it’s French, meaning ‘I don’t know what’.’

  Clattercup stared at him wall-eyed for a minute.

  ‘I ’aven’t the least bloody idea what you’re talking about,’ he said at last.

  Ethelbert raised his eyes to heaven.

  ‘And some fell on stony ground,’ he said.

  ‘Well, ’ow much would you want?’ enquired Clattercup of Adrian. ‘These cultural shows take a lot of brass to get ’em on. I’m not made of brass, jew understand?’

  ‘Well, I was just thinking in terms of a modest salary, enough to cover my own expenses and the expense of feeding Rosy,’ said Adrian.

  ‘And of course you would provide the costumes,’ said Ethelbert.

  Clattercup lit a large cigar and pondered for some minutes behind a cumulus of acrid smoke.

  ‘Does she cost much to feed?’ he said at last, jerking his thumb at Rosy.

  ‘’er, a fair amount,’ said Adrian.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ said Clattercup, ‘and I can’t say fairer than this. I’ll pay for her food and I’ll pay for your keep until we see how you are going on. Then, if you are a success, we can discuss it further.’

  ‘Right,’ said Adrian, delighted, ‘that’ll suit me perfectly.’

  ‘I shall want you for rehearsals at two o’clock this afternoon,’ said Clattercup.

  ‘Fine,’ said Adrian, ‘I’ll be here.’

  ‘All right,’ said Clattercup. ‘Ta ra.’

  Turning on his heel, he walked back into the theatre.

  ‘Darling boy,’ said Ethelbert, ‘isn’t that wonderfid? Now we’ll go back to the cottage and have a celebration, and then we’ll get back here a little before two and I’ll show you round the theatre.’

  15. The Rehearsal

  After a celebration at Ethelbert’s cottage, which consisted of apples for Rosy and a bottle of elderberry wine for Adrian and Ethelbert, the whole thing being accompanied (in a very cultural manner) by a spirited rendering by Ethelbert on his tuba of what he insisted was a fine old Irish ballad entitled ‘If I Were a Blackbird’, they had lunch and hurried back into the town.

  They tethered Rosy in a big shed outside the back of the theatre where the scenery was stored, made her comfortable with some hay and some mangolds and then Ethelbert led Adrian into the theatre.

  ‘I have never been back stage in a theatre,’ said Adrian. ‘Haven’t you, darling boy?’ said Ethelbert. ‘But it’s such an experience. Come, I’ll show you.’

  He danced away in the gloom and Adrian could hear the click of switches. Suddenly before him, glittering resplendent as a wedding cake, was the Sultan’s palace in all its cardboard glory. Adrian looked out into the centre of the stage and gazed into the dark auditorium where he could just dimly discern the rows of seats and boxes perched around the walls. He was amazed at the great flats and sheets of scenery held on ropes and pulleys high above the proscenium arch out of sight of the audience, presumably waiting to be lowered at the appropriate moment by some minions of the theatre.

  ‘This,’ said Ethelbert, joining him in front of the Sultan’s palace, raising himself on tiptoe and doing a little pirouette, ‘is the revolving stage. We have got three scenes on it, and it goes right round when they pull those levers over there. Saves an awful lot of mucking about.’

  ‘It’s really fascinating,’ said Adrian.

  ‘Well, come a
long, darling boy,’ said Ethelbert, and he fluttered once more into the wings and switched off the lights, plunging the Sultan’s palace into dusty gloom. He dived away through the scenery piled in comers and Adrian followed him.

  Presently they came to a long narrow corridor, on either side of which was a series of doors.

  ‘This,’ said Ethelbert flitting down the corridor to a door and leaning against it decoratively, ‘this is my dressing-room, dear boy.’

  He pointed to the door on which was a card that stated, rather startlingly, ETHELBERT CLEEP – CHIEF WIFE TO SULTAN. He opened the door and led Adrian into a tiny, rather dingy little room, most of one wall being taken up by a large mirror lit by gas lamps. There was a cupboard in one corner, the door hanging half open, and in it Adrian could see various exotic and eastern-looking costumes and a number of diaphanous veils.

  Reclining on a horse-hair sofa on the other side of the room was an extremely large and statuesque red-head, clad (it was quite obvious) in nothing but a rather moth-eaten dressing-gown trimmed with ostrich feathers. She lay in the attitude of one who has been carved from stone and placed on top of a medieval tomb, but instead of her hands clasping to her bosom some item of ecclesiastical interest, she was holding a half-full bottle of gin. Her snores were loud and rhythmic, though lady-like in their way.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Ethelbert, ‘she’s at it again.’

  He flapped across the room and removed the bottle of gin from its owner’s firm clasp and then started patting her cheeks daintily.

  ‘Honoria, my dear, Honoria,’ said Ethelbert, ‘do wake up.’ The lady, thus appealed to, stirred and muttered something derogatory under her breath.

  ‘This is Honoria,’ said Ethelbert glancing over his shoulder at Adrian. ‘Honoria Loosestrife. She’s our principal boy.’

  ‘Principal boy?’ said Adrian.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ethelbert, ‘she’s awfully good.’

  Adrian sat down on a chair and studied Ethelbert carefully.

  ‘Just let me get things straight. You are playing the Sultan’s favourite wife, and she,’ he said pointing at Honoria, who was now displaying a vast expanse of pearly bosom, ‘she’s playing the principal boy?’

  ‘But, of course’ said Ethelbert. ‘Silly boy, it’s always like that in pantomimes.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Adrian. ‘Well, it sounds very queer to me.’

  ‘You’ll soon get used to it,’ said Ethelbert. ‘It’s merely a question of adjusting.’

  He went over to a jug and basin in the corner, wet a large flannel and proceeded to apply it to Honoria.

  ‘Gerorf. Leavemealone,’ she said indistinctly.

  ‘Now, now, dear,’ said Ethelbert. ‘You must be ready for rehearsals.

  ‘You know what old cretinous Clattercup is like.’

  He squeezed about a pint of water out of the flannel all over Honoria’s face and turned to Adrian.

  ‘Such a nice girl,’ he said, ‘but she has, how shall I put it, a slight penchant for stimulants.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Adrian, ‘I can see that. Rosy has too.’

  Honoria dragged herself upright on the couch and sat looking at them blearily. Her dressing-gown had now become disarranged to a considerable degree. Adrian hastily averted his gaze.

  ‘There we are then,’ said Ethelbert. ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘No,’ said Honoria in a deep mournful contralto that was somehow reminiscent of the lower notes of Ethelbert’s tuba, ‘I feel dreadful . . . dreadful.’

  ‘Well,’ said Ethelbert philosophically, ‘gin on an empty stomach is not the best way to start the day.’

  ‘Nobody cares about me,’ said Honoria lugubriously, and to Adrian’s intense embarrassment and alarm large tears welled out of her eyes, trickled down her cheeks and fell on her ample bosom.

  ‘Of course they do, my love,’ said Ethelbert. ‘Everybody simply adores you.’

  ‘They don’t,’ sobbed Honoria. ‘They’re jealous of me and my art.’

  Ethelbert sighed and raised his eyes to heaven.

  ‘Adrian,’ he said, ‘would you be a dear and go along to the stage door and get a cup of tea for Honoria? It will make her feel better.’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Honoria sonorously, clasping her forehead and one breast in a dramatic gesture, ‘nothing, but death will make me feel any better.’

  Her gesture had succeeded in disarranging her dressing gown still further, so Adrian fled before any more of Honoria’s voluptuous figure was vouchsafed to him. He eventually found a little bewhiskered gnome of a man sitting in what looked like a glass-fronted pay box full of keys, and managed, after some argument, to extricate a large mug of tea which he carried back to the dressing room.

  To his astonishment, there was no longer an air of drunken gloom. Honoria was rolling about on the couch, giving vent to great, rich gurgles of laughter at what appeared to be some joke that Ethelbert had been telling her.

  ‘Oh, my soul,’ she said sitting up and wiping her eyes. ‘Reely Ethelbert, you are terrible.’

  ‘Never a dull moment,’ said Ethelbert, thrusting the mug of tea into her hand.

  She sipped the tea and eyed Adrian appraisingly, then she wrapped her dressing-gown closer about her and drew herself up majestically.

  ‘Who is this?’ she enquired.

  ‘Adrian,’ said Ethelbert. ‘He has joined the show with his elephant.’

  ‘Tarrach!’ said Honoria, with such ferocity that Adrian jumped. ‘That’s all we need, an elephant in this show. Already half my best lines are killed by that ridiculous clashing of cymbals that Clattercup insists on. That orchestra deliberately plays off key to put me out in all my best solo numbers, and now we are to have an elephant stumping about the stage and no doubt leaving huge mounds of excrement wherever it goes.’

  ‘No, no,’ Ethelbert assured her earnestly. ‘It’s a very clean elephant.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Adrian, who was beginning vaguely to grasp the method of handling Honoria’s rather volatile nature, ‘as a matter of fact, Mr. Clattercup when he employed me said that he had got such a wonderful principal boy that nothing but the best in the way of um . . . er. . . .’

  ‘Props,’ prompted Ethelbert.

  ‘Props, that’s it,’ said Adrian, ‘nothing but the best of props was good enough – to give her the right background.’ Honoria’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘Honest? Did he say that?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Adrian, blushing slightly.

  ‘Success,’ sighed Honoria. ‘Success at last. Dear boy, of course you may use your elephant.’ She bowed graciously to Adrian.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Adrian.

  ‘And I promise to give it every consideration on the stage,’ said Honoria.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Adrian, wondering how it would be possible for even somebody as magnificently endowed with temperament as Honoria to cramp Rosy’s style.

  ‘Well, come on,’ said Ethelbert. ‘We’d better go and see old Clattercup and find out what he wants you and Rosy to do.’

  The rest of the afternoon was, to say the least of it, exhausting. Mr. Clattercup, as a producer, seemed to have only the haziest notion of what could and what could not be done on a stage, and the more he ranted and raved and tore his hair, the more confused things became. Fights broke out among the Sultan’s harem when it was discovered that Clattercup wanted half of them to stand behind a piece of eastern lattice-work, completely obscured from the audience. People exiting right would bump into people entering right, and, towards the end of the afternoon, everything became so confused that sometimes the principal girl (a fragile, fluffy-haired little creature who, although apparently no relative, was on fairly intimate terms with Mr. Clattercup) got positively hysterical and started singing the principal boy’s songs by mistake. This produced a magnificent display of apoplexy on the part of Honoria and the stage was in such confusion that Clattercup had to allow everybody to return to their dressing-rooms for ten m
inutes to regain their composure.

  During this brief respite Clattercup called Adrian up on to the stage.

  ‘Now, lad,’ he said, ‘follow me. This is Sultan’s palace, see.’

  He strode through the painted backdrops of the Sultan’s palace and into the next scene which was fairly plain, dominated by a large piece of extremely unsubstantial looking rock surrounded by a regiment of drooping palm trees. The rock was supposed to open into Ali Baba’s cave, Mr. Clattercup explained.

  ‘I’ll show you how it works,’ he said proudly. Ali Baba stands ’ere, jew see, and he presses this little button on the floor, jew see, and says ‘Open Sesame’.’

  Mr. Clattercup suited action to words. The rock remained obdurate.

  ‘Where the bloody ’ell’s that props man?’ shouted Mr. Clattercup. ‘Tell him to get this damned cave opens.’

  A harassed props man came and, after much fiddling with wires, succeeded in getting the rock to swing open with an ominous grinding and squeaking noise and Clattercup, still breathing stertorously, stalked through the hole into the next set which was the cave. Here there were piles of artificial jewels pouring out of great wooden chests and, of course, the indispensable forty great jars in which the thieves were to be incarcerated.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Clattercup. ‘No expense spared, jew see, boy?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Adrian, ‘it’s very impressive.’

  ‘Now,’ said Clattercup, leading the way back to the Sultan’s palace, ‘this is where you and that animal comes in. It’s when Sultan makes his first entry. I want your elephant to come in ’ere and go across there, and then just stand. She’ll be pulling a cart, of course, and the Sultan’ll be in the cart.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Adrian, ‘but wouldn’t it be better if he was in a howdah?’

  ‘What’s that?’ enquired Clattercup suspiciously.

  ‘Well, it’s a sort of thing that is perched on the elephant’s back.’

  Clattercup mused on this for a minute.

  ‘No,’ he said at length reluctantly. ‘No, it’s too dangerous. That Sultan’s the best baritone this side of Winklesea. If he fell off and broke his leg or something, whole show’d collapse. No, it will ’ave to be a cart.’