Before the war, Walter had lived a very simple life. Clothes were patched and mended, all the food in the cupboards had to be used up before they even began to think about heading to the shops and even when they did, cheap tins of spam and beans were always at the top of the list. When Britain had declared war against Germany, Walter’s mother had taken no chances and Walter had found himself on a ferry to the Isle of Wight, placed into the care of his kind and overly zealous Auntie Maureen and his quiet Uncle Harold on their farm. His father, a fighter pilot, and his mother, a housewife, were both cruelly claimed by the Blitz a year later and Walter could not and would never understand the destruction and the lives lost, all in the name of King and country.
Home schooled by patient and intelligent Uncle Harold, Walter had stayed with his aunt and uncle until he reached the age of eighteen. He learned invaluable skills in the country such as how to ride a horse, how to shoot a rabbit and how to milk a cow, but every other weekend when his uncle didn’t need him for sheep shearing or his auntie for baking, he’d borrow his uncle’s bike and ride the five miles to the nearest picture house in Newport and spend the money he’d earned helping on the farm on watching the latest movie. The rim of moving lights around the movie’s title on the board outside glimmered in Walter’s eyes, the images of Irene Dunne and Judy Garland dancing around in his head long after he had returned home. And despite filling his days with activities, Walter seemed to have an itch that just couldn’t be scratched. Finally, after a lot of tears from his Auntie Maureen and a test on a map of London from Uncle Harold, Walter convinced them that it was time for him to spread his wings and return to his hometown. And so, on his eighteenth birthday he booked a ticket on the eight o’clock ferry to Portsmouth and a train from there to London for the following day.
As soon as his feet touched the platform at London Victoria, Walter knew he would never leave. He’d secured a job as a caretaker’s assistant at a school in Greenford, and although it was a little further out of central London than he’d have liked, he needed to work, and the school were paying more than he thought was usual for a caretaker’s assistant. It was only when he met the caretaker that he knew why.
‘Here’s ya list. Gerron with it.’ Mr Lancaster was tall, yet exceedingly round, and his face was a shade of red Walter thought you should only ever see on a strawberry. The list was scrawled in an illegible hand on a thick notebook and Walter could see it was a few pages long with some of the work needing to be done dating back at least a few weeks.
‘I’m not due to start until tomorrow,’ Walter said, desperate to put down his trunk.
‘You’re due to start when I tell ya to.’
‘But – excuse me, sir, it’s Sunday and I thought —’ Walter said but Mr Lancaster simply shouted, ‘Sling yarook and gerron with it!’ He slammed the door, knocking Walter’s trunk into his knee. Walter found his quarters – a room with a bed and a sink – and got to work. He scrubbed floors and toilets, removed chewing gum from the undersides of desks with a butter knife, fixed windows and curtain rails and even unstuck a bird from a chimney. By the time he’d finished the first page of his list, it was almost midnight. He was tired and hungry, but the exhaustion outweighed the hunger and he was asleep before his head even hit his uncomfortable pillow.
Walter stayed at the school for six months before Mr Lancaster drove him so insane he could no longer bear it. He saved enough money for three months’ rent on a small flat nearer central London and found a new job as a pot washer at The Langham hotel in Marylebone who were desperate for a new boy to start immediately and Walter fit the bill. He almost scrubbed and rinsed his fingerprints into oblivion, but The Langham paid him well and he scrubbed his way to as many months rent on his flat in Lewisham as he needed. He didn’t necessarily love the work, but he loved that he was living in the heart of his favourite city, and that his work brought him only a short walk from London’s West End. On his lunch breaks Walter could often be found stood by various stage doors, and whilst he didn’t want to speak to any of the actors nor did he really want them to notice him, he enjoyed hearing their conversations, seeing the remnants of make-up line the edges of their faces and watching these extraordinarily talented people sit next to regular people in cafés between matinees and evening shows. Walter was fascinated by the world beyond the stage door and longed to see on the other side.
It was on one particularly sunny day when Walter was waiting by the stage door of the Southern Cross Theatre that both doors suddenly burst open and a young boy hit the floor with a grotesque crack. He was followed by a short, stocky man neatly dressed in a grey, well-pressed suit with greasy slicked hair and a thin moustache above his sweaty lip. Walter took his appearance in quickly, his attention swiftly drawn by the gun held in his hand, the barrel of which was pointing directly at the centre of the young boy’s forehead.
‘If you ever so much as look at this theatre again, I’m gonna know about it and, so help me God, I will squash you under my boot.’ The man pulled the trigger. The young boy yelped, and Walter couldn’t help but scream too, flinging his arms over his head and cowering against the theatre wall. There was a bang and a fizzle and when Walter cautiously opened his eyes and peeked through his tangle of arms and hands, he saw a thin trail of smoke snaking out of the end of the gun.
‘Now get out of ’ere.’ The man gave the boy a hard kick on one of his shins and the boy scrambled up off the cobbles and hobbled down the street, soon lost in the hordes of people.
‘It’s a prop,’ Walter laughed, breathing heavily and clutching his chest, trying to calm his heart. ‘It’s a prop!’ He laughed some more.
‘Well done,’ said the man, rolling his eyes. ‘You ever worked in a theatre before?’ He used the gun to gesture to the open stage door, twirling it expertly in his hand, and Walter realised this wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with a firearm.
‘No, but I’ve been a caretaker.’ I did more than assist Mr Lancaster, he thought, I practically did his job for him! ‘And a pot washer. Basically, I can fix and/or wash anything you like.’
‘Can you answer a phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you sign for packages?’
‘Absolutely!’ Walter held his hands behind his back, his feet apart and nodded.
‘Do you often lose things? Like… your keys for instance?’
‘Never.’
‘That’s good enough for me. Get inside.’ The man disappeared through the door.
‘You’re kidding?’ Walter ran after him.
‘Do I look like I’m kidding?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Then get inside!’
Walter followed the man through another set of double doors and down a long corridor. They passed posters for various different musicals, all signed with messages of love and well wishes from cast members. Kiss marks in vibrant lipsticks had been dotted around the walls along with girls’ names and the running dates of their shows underneath. Every nook and cranny was filled with a hidden history that you wouldn’t know was there unless you were invited through the stage door to see it.
‘Wow,’ Walter breathed.
‘You keeping up, boy?’ said the man. Walter hadn’t realised he’d become so engrossed in reading all the messages, he’d stopped in the middle of the corridor.
‘Yes! Sorry! I’m here!’ Walter bounded to the burly man and as he turned the slight bend in the corridor, Walter saw he had been joined by someone else.
‘Lenny! This is your new protégé.’ Lenny was almost half Walter’s height and his flat cap threw a shadow over his eyes so Walter could only see his bent nose, his wrinkled cheeks and the cigarette hanging out of his lips.
‘Bit young, ain’t ’e?’ Lenny wiped sandwich crumbs from the stubble on his chin.
‘I’m twenty-two,’ mumbled Walter.
‘All right, all right,’ Lenny sighed. ‘Anyfing’s better than a thief.’ He grabbed Walter by the arm and pulled him through a door,
under a sign that read SILENCE! YOU CAN BE HEARD ON STAGE! Walter held his breath as they entered into the upstage, stage left wing and found themselves in a small quick-change area that could only comfortably hold maybe four people. Large set pieces hung above them and swung gently from strong ropes and wires. Even though Walter knew they were probably as secure as the crown jewels in the Tower of London, he tried not to stand directly underneath anything. Just in case. From the back the sets were clearly made of wood but as he caught a glimpse onto the stage, he could see the brickwork so convincingly painted onto the other side. Lipsticks were lined up along the edge of a wooden desk fixed to the back of the set, in front of a crooked mirror hung from a rusty nail. All the lipsticks were open, ready for the evening’s performance. The smell of dry ice was thick in the stuffy, almost moist air and caught in the back of Walter’s throat.
‘This way!’ Lenny tottered down the cramped stage left wing. Walter’s shoulders were gently grazing the wall and the black cloth that hung to hide anyone from the audience’s view. Lenny opened up a door and climbed three steps into another carpeted quick-change area, this one with a mirror with lightbulbs around the rim and a full set of make-up laid out in a neat row beside a gold box of tissues. Walter caught Lenny’s eye and realised he’d been watching him take in every detail.
‘That’s for our new leading lady. Quiet girl but nice enough. Very young. In over her head. Don’t get any funny ideas,’ said Lenny, pointing at him with one of his lumpy fingers that had clearly been broken at some point in his lifetime.
‘Of course not,’ said Walter, nodding emphatically, but Lenny simply laughed.
‘Out here, then!’ Lenny produced a key and opened up another door leading out into a well-lit, ornate corridor and Walter figured this must be front of house. ‘What the audience can see is a right side nicer than what we get to slum it in. Funny that, innit? We’re doing all the work and we get all the shit. Dirty stone floors. Chipped paintwork. This lot get carpets, velvet cushions and a show? Makes no sense if you ask me!’
Walter wondered how much work Lenny actually did at stage door, compared to the actors and the crew in the show, and whether his bitterness was valid. They walked down a set of stairs past pictures of famous actors from years gone by who had performed on the stage of the Southern Cross, and Lenny pushed through a set of polished wooden doors with a little more aggression than was necessary, bringing Walter out into the auditorium.
‘Excuse me?’ A man was sitting in one of the stalls seats, sunk down low on its cushion with his legs outstretched and his ankles crossed on the backs of one of the seats diagonally in front of him.
‘Sorry mate, just showing the new boy around.’
‘Mate?’ The man swung his legs down, stood and straightened out his clean and well-pressed suit jacket. ‘Who do you think you are?’
‘I’m Lenny. Stage door.’ Walter glanced sideways at Lenny and wondered how good he was at gauging situations. ‘You know the theatre’s closed, right?’ Clearly not very good at all, Walter thought.
‘Lenny, I think he may be someone important,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ said Lenny, quite loudly.
‘Yes, boy, care to share with the group?’ The man walked slowly towards them down the row, making every step more decisive than the last.
‘I was just saying you’re clearly someone of great importance and so I’m sure you wouldn’t be here without reason,’ Walter replied.
The man quickly looked Walter up and down and nodded. ‘Well done, boy. Finally, someone with a bit of sense. I think you’ll find, Mr… Lenny, I am the producer of When The Curtain Falls, Hamish Boatwright.’
‘When the what?’ Lenny shrugged.
‘When The Curtain Falls,’ Hamish hissed through his straight teeth. ‘The new production due to open in two days!’
‘Right.’ Lenny shrugged again.
‘The whole of London’s talking about it,’ Walter said, adjusting himself behind Lenny’s tensed shoulder.
‘They are indeed,’ smiled Hamish, his moustache curling up at the ends.
‘You’re not the director, then?’ Lenny probed and Hamish’s nose twitched. The show’s director, William Hurdle, wasn’t a fan of Hamish wanting to produce the show and play the part of Melvin Banks. They clashed at every rehearsal and most days ended in a blazing row until, finally, Hurdle quit. However, Hamish couldn’t afford to lose William Hurdle’s name attached to the production. His body of work was astounding and his high profile was just what the show needed to get off the ground. Hamish knew how loud money could talk, so he paid him off. If Hurdle kept his name attached to the show and let Hamish take over direction, Hamish paid him more than directing any show in town possibly could. It didn’t matter then to Hurdle if the show flopped. He’d already be in America spending his money on women and whiskey.
‘No, I’m the producer,’ Hamish said through gritted teeth.
‘I’ve not heard anything about it,’ Lenny said. Walter glanced sideways at Lenny’s face and could see that he was lying; stubbornness may as well have been written across his forehead in bold lettering.
‘Then maybe it’s time you started listening.’ Hamish tugged sharply on the hem of his suit jacket, straightening out its creases, and turned on the heels of his shiny black shoes. ‘Fawn. We’ve got scenes to rehearse.’ There was movement and a rustle of papers from the far side of the auditorium, and a tangle of autumnal burnt orange hair bobbed up above the sea of red velvet seats.
‘Of course, Mr Boatwright.’ Fawn stood and brushed down her cream dress that was cinched in at her waist with a thick sky blue belt. She brushed off the fluff and quickly collected the many sheets of paper she’d scattered around her on the floor, stuffing them back into her brown leather satchel.
‘Please, darling,’ Hamish smiled with all his teeth as he moved to her. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times. It’s Hamish.’ Hamish Boatwright delicately snaked one arm around Fawn’s shoulders, but the fingers of his other encircled the wrist that held the strap of her satchel. Walter could see by his whitening knuckles that his grip was just that little bit too tight. ‘And what have I told you about sitting on the floor?’
‘I know, Mr Boatwri – Hamish.’ She half smiled. ‘I just find it so much easier to learn the lines when I have the entire scene laid out in front of me.’
‘It’s not about what’s easier. It’s about what’s ladylike. West End starlets don’t sit on the floor. Don’t make me repeat myself, Fawn, dear.’
Walter watched Fawn flinch and stop on their journey to the door and Hamish snatched his hand away from the wrist that Fawn was now gently rubbing. Walter coughed loudly. Hamish quickly glanced behind him and locked eyes with Walter, who wondered whether the producer’s next move would have been different had he not been watching.
‘Lunch, my dear? My treat.’ Hamish offered Fawn his arm and hesitantly she slipped her own slender arm through his. They disappeared through front of house, but not before Fawn’s green eyes found Walter’s and silently said thank you.
9
Letters and Keys
Walter’s job at the theatre was straightforward enough. As the stage door manager’s assistant, he arrived at nine in the morning, after the cleaners had started at eight but well before Lenny had even stumbled out of bed. As merely an errand boy for Lenny, his main duties were signing for any parcels and storing them accordingly before they were collected, taking note of anything broken or faulty and making sure everyone signed in and signed out. Lenny was very precious about keys and wouldn’t let Walter touch the wooden box on the wall where they all hung in neat rows on their hooks. The amount of packages and post that arrived at the theatre kept Walter the busiest and although it was a menial task, the feeling of purpose kept Walter happy. By the time Walter had sorted through everything the postman had brought with him, Lenny would have stumbled in at around half nine, still bleary-eyed and stinking of last night’s ale.
‘This one??
?s for Hamish,’ Walter said, brandishing the biggest of the last three or four letters. It felt thick and heavier than the other letters as if it contained more than just one sheet of good quality paper. The writing on the envelope was almost illegible, but Walter could tell from the big swirling ‘H’ who it was meant for.
‘Put it in his pigeonhole then.’ Lenny sat in his little cubby with his feet up on the desk, the ash from the end of his cigar peppered across every surface and trodden into the carpet. The smell made Walter want to vomit. Walter turned his back on Lenny to face the pigeonholes above the little table, and pushed Hamish’s letter into the correct slot.