L M Dillsworth Extract from Age of Monsters The African in the Audience
G
o to the theatre much? No, nor me. At least not before I became an actress. I know what you’re thinking. ‘Actress’, eh. But you can keep your dirty-minded thoughts to yourself. Regardless of whether you been up Shaftesbury once, twice or ten times though, I reckon you’ll remember that feeling you get before the show starts. The fizzing in your belly conjured by cheap gin and jellied eels at tuppence a pot. You’re so eager at the thought of the performance to come, you keep your eyes fixed hard on the curtain in front of you. You study its red velvet folds and gold trim. But if you really don’t want to miss nothing you’d do well to look to the left of the stage. Time it right and you might just see the performers looking out at you. Back in the thirties, if you found yourself at Stratton’s off Drury Lane, you might have seen two heads poking out from the wings of the stage. The blonde one was Ellen and the tight black curls? That was me, Zillah. I know it’s strange to think of us watching you when you came to watch us, but each of us had our reasons. Ellen searched the audience for a scout, someone with the power to pluck her from the Stratton’s stage and take her to The Theatre Royal Covent Garden. She fancied herself a prima ballerina. I was more concerned to see what mood the punters were in. If they were at the stage of drink where they would join in a sing-song or so in their cups they might throw things at us. Every crowd was different, but there was one September night, with the young Queen not long come to the throne, that one man in particular caught my eye. The first thing I noticed was his hat. Stood out a mile among the flat caps and bowlers, and he had the frock coat to match. It’s not
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