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SHOWMAN
one of the girls in the variety show, one of the young women who had to hustle drinks while we were on stage. The screaming of women in the boxes was just as common a sound in our boiler-factory accompaniment as revolver shots— and every time I heard a scream, I had to start wondering if that was Mary— which wasn't her name, by the way. It was tough to have to go on gagging and working for laughs when what you really wanted to do was hurdle the footlights and do your 120pound best to beat up some befuddled customer who'd grabbed your girl round the waist and was holding her on his knee by main force. We played our parts straight too, although why we bothered to I don't know yet. The fact is, I don't remember many of the details of that engagement very clearly— it was all too mad to make sense at the time or in retrospect either and, this being abysmally in love made sure that the fog never cleared away.
And she was a nice girl and I was dreadfully in love. I'd have stayed there all my life, playing melodrama till 5 a.m. every morning, just to be with her. She would have been worth it. Just how much she was worth came out very clearly at the end, cued by a telegram I got from Lewis Morrison— grandfather of Joan, Constance and Barbara Bennett, by the way— inviting me to come east and join a company he was getting together. Come at once. Shakespeare— backer with lots of money and a fool daughter who wanted to be an actress— opportunity not to be missed. Stage-manager and low-comedy
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