Extract from Age of Monsters The African in the Audience- L M Dillsworth

Go 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 often you get a man in a topper at Stratton’s. Don’t mistake me, it’s no penny gaff, but even so, I was suspicious. Then I clocked the colour of him. “Him over there. What do you make of him?” I said to Ellen. She squinted in the direction of my pointed finger. “The African you mean? Don’t often get one of yours in.” He sat on the benches, three rows back, his right leg stretched out on the aisle. Even from here, peeking out behind the curtain, I could see that he was tall and broad in the shoulders. Around him sat our usual regulars, the shop boys and navvies already half cut and impatient for the show to start. The sour tang of their sweat was sharp on the air. Beyond them were the tables for the better sort, the clerks with women worth the price of a dinner. The ushers weaved around them touting trinkets and sweetmeats, competing for the pennies in their pockets. Up above, the box where our proprietor usually sat was in darkness. Marcus Stratton rarely missed a show but for the time being he was on business in the Indies.

Ellen, satisfied now that she had the measure of the African, delivered her verdict. “Selfish bastard I reckon. No call to be wearing a hat three minutes before the curtain.”

Ellen revelled in her coarseness. I only understood one in three of the swearwords she used, but that was because cursing made her accent thicker. When I’d first started at Stratton’s she’d been the only one to welcome me. The only one to pass the time of day while I got to know my act. Straight away the others hated me, and didn’t trouble to hide it. When I entered a room, they sniggered behind their hands. Just a drop or two of colour was enough to make me an outcast in their eyes. But Ellen, coming from Galway as she did, knew just enough of what it was to be different to see that we could be allies. I judged her to be around twenty-five or so, five years older than myself. It was clear she knew her way around and though I was sharp enough, I saw in her someone who could help me learn the ways of the theatre.

All this time Ellen had been straining her eyes to look at the African. “You recognise him?” she said. “No. He’s unsettled me is all.” “I’ll tell the boys to kick him out,” Ellen said. “Don’t do that.” I didn’t know what it was about the African that threw me off but I didn’t want to see his evening spoiled, not on my account. Especially as it must be my act that he’d come to see.

It’s become my act. That’s how I think of it now, but it was mostly Marcus Stratton’s idea. The theatre held open auditions on Tuesdays and Thursdays at lunchtime. I’d gone along, not quite sure what to expect but knowing I needed the money. I was surprised to learn it was Stratton himself holding the auditions, but there he was and younger than I’d thought, thirty or thereabouts. His hair was fair, with a tinge of red, the whiskers that covered his cheeks connected by a thin moustache. He put me in mind of a fox, especially when he smiled at me. “What have we here?” he said when I walked in. He was sitting alone at a round table before the stage. Something about his tone made me want to turn on my heel and leave. But instead I raised my chin and strode right up to him. That made him sit up in his chair. “I’m Zillah,” I said and stuck out my hand for him to shake. He took it, held it just a little too long. A lady might have snatched her hand back but I sensed he was testing me. I must’ve passed.

“Oh, that will never do, we’ll have to think of something better. You sing, dance?”

“I’m an actress more than anything, sir,” I said. It wasn’t strictly true but I spent enough time wishing I was someone else, and I loved Mr. Shakespeare.

“Are you planning to put on a play, sir?”

Stratton’s wasn’t famous for its acting. It had a magician named Aldous, dancers and some popular comedy acts. Stratton put his head to one side and stroked his chin, looking foxier than ever.

“I had something a little different in mind. Something new. You’re quite tall aren’t you, Zillah, well built. Lift up your skirt. No don’t look at me like that, only to the knee.”

I did as he said, wondering what it was he had in mind for me. The elastic that I’d used to hold up my stockings had left a ring of indentations in the skin and they itched something chronic.

“Good legs,” Stratton muttered to himself. “Quite light, but we could fix that. The costume will have to work quite hard.” He reached into his pocket for his tobacco. When he unfolded the leather pouch, I got a waft of wood mingled with cherries. Stratton turned to me and said, “Tell me, have you ever been to Holman’s House of Wonders?” Holman’s ha! As if I’d ever had the money for that. A whole shilling for an hour’s show. I knew what it was though. I’d often walked past it, the big building that took up one whole corner at Piccadilly Circus with its curtained windows. At minutes to seven there was always a queue outside. Sometimes it went right around the block. Men and women and their carriages waiting a little further down. “It’s a freak show,” I told Stratton. “That’s right. Lot of money in freaks nowadays, Zillah.” “But there’s nothing wrong with me.” “You said you were an actress. Can’t you play the part?”