8
Right Place, Right Time
Walter Brown was a city boy through and through. He knew how to weave in and out of people in crowds, which side streets were shortcuts and which coffee houses sold the best brew for the cheapest price. He’d grown up amongst the smoke and the sootand although he never could get the grime out from under his fingernails, there was no place else he’d rather be. London was, and always would be, home – but nowhere more so than Soho. The lights down Shaftesbury Avenue ignited a spark inside Walter that glimmered no matter where he went. It wasn’t that he wanted to be an actor, on stage or screen, even if he did spend all the money he had on tryingto look like James Cagney. No, Walter was simply enamoured by the glitz and glamour of the theatre. It was a love affair that had begun as child, and one he knew would last a lifetime.
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 whenthey 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 bothcruelly 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 rabbitand 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 hishometown. 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 thanhe’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 handon 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 yarookand 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 almostmidnight. 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 Langhamhotel 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 workbrought 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 regularpeople 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 neatlydressed 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 willsquash 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?’
‘Definitelynot.’
‘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 andcranny 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.
