Material Girl. Louise Kean
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‘Make-up, I’m not finished. And who has done the research, you or me? And who wants to look like a fool in front of Dolly Russell, perhaps the last true Hollywood starlet, when she asks you what you know about theatre?’
‘I can just say some stuff about plays and things. I’ve read some … Arthur Miller,’ I say, thankful that I could remember the name of an American playwright.
‘And the cartoon section in the Sunday Times as well, Make-up? Come on now, sit down, you need to know this.’
Tristan is obviously enjoying himself.
‘But don’t you have stuff to do?’ I ask, exhausted.
‘Yes. This. Now, in March 1901, looking for a venue to stage his dancing act The Sabines, Pierre Christophe Magrine, a French businessman who had made a name for himself as a slick mover amongst his contemporaries, and the chorus girls if you get my gist, bought The Majestic as a venue for his style of evening entertainment. On the day the renovators removed the boards from the entrance, triumphantly kicking the door down, an evil stench seeped out. Covering their mouths with handkerchiefs, swiping at their watering eyes, they weaved their way to the back of the stage, following the smell as it became increasingly passionate, leading them finally to a small locked cupboard, big enough for a chair and a mirror and a shelf. Evil curiosity made them break that door down too, and a dozen well-fed screaming rats hurtled out across their feet. The workmen found the bearded lady decomposed in her dressing room. She still sat stiffly on a small chair in front of a mirror that had been smashed. By the streaks of blood on the glass it was fair to say that punching her reflection had been the dying act of a circus freak. The floor of the theatre was littered in rat droppings, and the walls were stained sticky and brown with cigarette tar, but The Majestic was cleaned up again.’
‘She killed herself because she was ugly?’ I ask, appalled.
‘Not just ugly, Make-up, a freak.’
‘But lots of women have hair on their faces, most girls wax, or laser, or whatever …’
‘Not back then, Make-up. Back then it made you a freak, and freaks don’t get married and have kids and get loved back.’
‘Yes they do, that’s an awful thing to say! You don’t just love somebody because of the way they look …’ I admonish him, slapping away the brush he’s been running up and down my nose.
‘Hush, Make-up. No lies in here please, let me finish my story. The Sabines – feathered, sequinned and high-kicking – remained at the theatre for nine years before Magrine set sail for Hollywood and the moving pictures. By this time The Majestic had established itself as a popular venue for light entertainment. Magrine sold the theatre on to a fresh set of investors, and a new management board was established. A series of light comedies played throughout 1910 and 1911, decadent and fun and attended mostly by lower middle-class workers, but disaster struck in 1912 when a discarded cigarette in a props cupboard sparked a blaze that had, by the time the firemen arrived, gutted the entire front and back of stage. All sets were destroyed, as was the curtain and the boxes. The roof had substantial fire damage, as the heat had crept quickly up the walls, and the building was judged to be unsound unless the top tier was pulled out. One unusually mild September night in 1913, The Majestic went from holding a spectacular one thousand seats to a mere six hundred and forty-three. Some of the bigger bitches of the time suggested that “The Majestic” was far too grand a name for a two-tiered theatre, and that it should be changed … But after an extensive renovation that lasted five years and employed the art deco style so popular in Paris at the time, although in clumsy contrast to the front of house, The Majestic, still known as The Majestic, reopened in 1918.’
‘Ta da!’ I say. ‘And then they showed some plays, and then it was Dolly Russell’s turn, and then …’
‘Stop it. I’ve nearly finished.’ Tristan glares at me.
‘Do you promise? I feel like I’m back in my history A-level,’ I say.
‘But weren’t they good times?’ he asks.
I think about history class, sitting next to Helen, flirting with Simon Howells across the room over textbooks filled with black and white pictures of war.
‘Yes, actually,’ I admit with a shrug.
‘Good. Then learn something new. The Majestic became known for its musical theatre, staging 267 performances of No, No, Nanette before it transferred to The Palace Theatre at Cambridge Circus. And although The Majestic fared well in the Twenties with numerous Noël Coward productions, nothing ever seemed to really take off. The Majestic just couldn’t get a hit. It became known amongst actors and crew as a “warm up” theatre, with shows that sold reasonably but rarely sold out. It was then that The Majestic earned its nickname, in theatre circles, as The Bridesmaid. For example …’ He takes a step back and strikes an affected pose.
‘Fur and feathers and lipstick: “What’s next for you, darling?”’
He jumps a foot and turns to face the space he has vacated.
‘Cravat, purple shirt and slacks: “I’m starting rehearsals next month for Noël Coward at The Bridesmaid, darling.”’
A jump. ‘Fur and feathers and lipstick: “Where were you hoping for, darling?”’
Jump. ‘Cravat, purple shirt and slacks: “The Apollo. Damned shame. Maybe next year. Drink, darling?”’
He stands still and straightens his now-crooked glasses.
‘A faulty oil lamp started the blaze that ravaged the old girl again, in 1931. It swept through The Bridesmaid like fleas in a halfway house, killing two tramps who slept under the sympathetic curves of the front entrance each night. The theatre was left for dead for two years, occasionally sighing and groaning to let Londoners know it was still there. She was past her best, charred and black with soot, damp from fire hoses, with rotting carpets and rats, the terrible rats, infesting her again, chewing at her insides. A sad and lonely old Bridesmaid, hoping for a little luck and love.’
‘Why are you looking at me like that, I have luck and …’ My words trail off.
‘Make-up, don’t be so sensitive. The Majestic was spectacularly reopened on the third of September 1939! Ta da! Of course, the timing was a little unfortunate, and her big night was dampened spitefully by the speech made by Neville Chamberlain at eleven fifteen that morning –
“This country is at war with Germany … now may God bless you all, and may he defend the right. For it is evil things that we shall be fighting against …” Still, the old girl was up and running again just in time: some nights they acted by candlelight, some nights they acted in the dark, which was more than could be said for other prettier theatres who dropped their curtain at the first sound of a siren.
‘Ivor Novello musicals trilled though the Forties and Fifties, with their beguiling talk of kingdoms of love and beauty and starlight, stepping lightly aside for the more sombre, stern faces of The Postman Always Knocks Twice and A Streetcar Named Desire as the Sixties drew in. The Milk Train Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore first opened in 1968.’
‘With Joanna Till?’ I ask, feeling, finally, like I can contribute – I read that name in the press pack.
‘That’s right. Well done. Gold star. Initially it was a far from controversial or even noteworthy opening. Lacking the public pulling power of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, or Streetcar, the critics called it a “strange little play for the strangest little theatre in the West End, and surely only being staged as a vanity project for Joanna Till.”’
‘Joanna Till had been one of the first studio stars in her youth, an international beauty with platinum curls that framed a pale complexion and a perfect cupid’s bow permanently painted on her delicate lips throughout the 1920s. By the time she came to play Mrs Goforth, the dying monster at the heart of the play – who has seen off numerous husbands and is now a recluse in an Italian villa