The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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because when Renato whips off the cover I can see what appears to be half a dozen broken black umbrellas hanging in an ugly cluster. My reaction is not an isolated one because a combined exclamation of disgust is the biggest noise produced by the audience the whole evening.
‘Ooh! I don’t fancy that!’ says Rosie.
‘Imagine one of those in your hair,’ says Mum. I remember her words later.
The chorus girl gingerly inserts her hand into the cage and then withdraws it sharply.
‘It bit her,’ gasps Mum.
‘I’m getting out,’ says Rosie.
‘Don’t be daft,’ says Dad. ‘They’re just trying to build up the suspense. I remember once, at the Finsbury Empire–’
‘Shut up, Dad.’
Renato moves forward swiftly and elbows his unfortunate assistant aside before plunging his mitt into the cage. More kerfuffle and one of the bats is drawn into the open. The audience sucks in its breath. Renato holds up the bat and produces what appears to be a lump of sugar from inside his robe. His miserable assistant is made to hold the bat by the tip of its wings and Renato advances to the footlights. Like a kid showing off the first tooth it loses, he flashes the sugar at the audience between finger and thumb and places it between his lips. The girl gratefully releases the bat which circles a couple of times and then swoops down to alight on the area of Renato’s mouth.
‘I’m going to be sick,’ says Rosie.
The sugar disappears and the bat takes off and zooms into the wings. I do not think it should do this unless Renato gets through an awful lot of bats in his act. Certainly, the Maestro’s face clouds over for a second as he gazes after his little squeaking friend.
‘He swallowed it,’ says Dad firmly.
‘Don’t be silly, dear. It flew off the stage.’
‘Not the bat, you stupid old bag. The piece of sugar.’
‘I’m going to be sick,’ says Rosie.
‘There it is,’ says Mum.
High above our heads the errant bat is circling the theatre, presumably looking for some means of getting out. I know just how it feels.
‘I hope it hasn’t been fed recently,’ says Mum.
‘Do you mind!’ says Dad. ‘That kind of talk isn’t nice.’
‘Having your hair messed up isn’t nice either,’ scolds Mum. ‘I had this done special.’ There is no doubt that Mum’s bonce does resemble petrified meringue.
‘Oh, no!’ breathes Rosie. ‘What’s he going to do now?’
Renato is filling his cake-hole with lumps of sugar and the beginnings of a drum roll tell us that the act is approaching its climax. The unwilling assistant takes the remaining bats across the stage in their cage and Renato advances to the footlights.
‘I don’t want to watch,’ Rosie buries her face in her hands. I glance at Mum whose eyes are wider than serving hatches. Dad is looking up at the ceiling. This kind of thing is probably very old hat after the Finsbury Empire. The drum roll reaches a crescendo and the girl on the stage gingerly releases the catch on the cage and withdraws her hand swiftly. Nothing happens. She waits for a moment and gives the cage a shake. Still nothing happens. Beginning to panic, she turns the cage on its side and shakes it viciously until, like sticky pastry, the bats begin to peel away.
After that things happen fast. A stream of bats make for Renato while one stays behind to menace his assistant. She screams, drops the cage and runs from the stage. Maybe this upsets the rest of the bats. They descend on Renato’s cake-hole like wasps on a squashed plum. There is an exclamation of pain that carries beyond the back row of the upper circle and Renato reels sideways, clapping his hand to his mouth and spraying the first three rows of the stalls with lumps of sugar. Obviously one of his little friends has taken the dead needle with him.
The bats swoop down into the audience like low flying aircraft and the next thing I know, Mum has one in her hair. I have heard some noises in my time but the sounds coming from Mum cap everything.
‘Ooooeeeooww!’ she shrieks. ‘Get it out! Get it out!’ The bat is squeaking and flapping away fit to burst and I see its evil little rat face and those teeth. Teeth! By the cringe, they are like something out of a horror comic. Around us the audience is in uproar and Renato is jumping off the edge of the stage. I tear my jacket off and throw it over Mum’s head. I have no intention of touching the bat with my bare hands. I close my hands around the disgusting quivering body–the bat’s I mean–and consider squeezing the life out of it. I don’t have to make the decision because Renato pushes me aside and whips off the jacket.
‘You are a madman!?’ he hisses. ‘You want to destroy me my little friend. See? She is frightened.’
‘What about my old woman?’ explodes Dad. ‘She’s just had her bleeding hair done. This lot is going to set you back a few bob.’
Renato ignores him.
‘Come, come Bettina,’ he soothes, ‘your pappa is here to look after you.’ Mum’s screams must now be jamming local radio stations. They are certainly not doing anything to calm down Bettina who sinks her treacherous fangs into Renato’s thumb as he extends a rescuing hand.
‘Aagh!!’ The Maestro staggers back and a row of seats collapses, taking Mum and Dad with it. In the confusion Bettina tears herself free and zooms off to join her little chums aloft. Dad belts Senor Renato up the bracket and Rosie disappears.
The last event is in many ways the most disturbing but I do not notice it until we have steered Mum into the manager’s office and started getting her outside a bottle of brandy. The show has been abandoned and Senor Renato is standing in the deserted auditorium trying to talk down his little friends who are sulking amongst the rafters. Dad is beside himself with ecstasy, having never actually connected with a blow before in his life.
‘He should never have tried it on with me,’ he says. ‘He was a fool to himself. He should never have done it. I showed him, didn’t I, love? I wasn’t going to have that Eyetie making you cry and getting away with it.’
‘You caught him in the mouth with your elbow when he turned round a bit sharpish,’ says Mum. ‘When he fell down you hit him again. Now do belt up about it. All I want to do is get away from here.’
It is then that I notice that Rosie has beaten her to it. Leaving Mum with her hand comfortably anchored to the neck of the brandy bottle and Dad trying to explain to the manager that free seats for the next performance are something short of adequate reparation for the mental and physical anguish caused, I race out into the still-rainy night just in time to reach the turnstile as Rosie is climbing into a taxi. I shout at her but she chooses not to hear and the taxi draws away. Knickers! Sidney is going to do his nut.
I waste valuable time hanging around for another taxi and then start running along the promenade. Every shelter is either full of tramps dossing down for the night or couples groping each other. These tableaux of fumbling lust sharpen my mind to thoughts of what is happening back at the Cromby. Will I get there in time to prevent Rosie tangling with Sam the Ram? Will Sidney be exposed in mid-grapple with some sexed-up swinger? New readers begin here.
I charge through the doors of the Cromby and run straight into Miss Primstone who is standing by the reception looking as enthusiastic as a bloodhound that has just received an estimate for a face lift.
‘Have you seen Mrs Noggett?’ I pant. Miss Primstone sighs.
‘I believe you will find her in the ballroom.’ It is the way that she shudders on the word ‘ballroom’ that terrifies me.
‘And Mr Noggett?’
‘I believe the little boy was having teething problems, Mr Noggett is tending him upstairs.’
‘Good!’ Miss Primstone’s eyebrows