In Good Company: The Palace Theatre
Enid Blackburn recalls theatrical days.
Reading an article about dear old Sandy Powell celebrating his 80th birthday reminded me of when the old Palace Theatre was still alive and well, echoing with top variety acts like Sandy, Jimmy James, Max Miller, the pianist Semprini, singers, dancers and even dramatic actors reciting lines from Shakespeare.
Every Saturday mum, dad, sister and I enjoyed our shillings worth in the front row of the balcony. Entertainment was rife in Huddersfield at that time. We seemed to have cinemas on every corner and a first-class repertory company at the Theatre Royal.
I was an avid cinema-goer from the age of six – but there is an indefinable magic in seeing live performances, which I am sorry my own children miss.
No wonder some of us were stage struck. ‘What did you really want to be when you left school?’ my boss once asked me when it was evident I was in the wrong job.
‘A film star,’ I answered straight away. She eventually stopped laughing and tried again. But I was serious, I had only sniffed the greasepaint in a small way but, had I not met my husband to be, I would probably still be on the front row of the chorus, waiting for my big break.
Ah yes, I can hear the sniggers. But I have rubbed shoulders with the famous. Hughie Green stood in front of me once when he was looking for talent in our theatre dressing room. I provoked Albert Modley into changing his script when we were both appearing at the Leeds Empire; and I was a Carroll Levis discovery! Only when he discovered me he didn’t know what to do with me. But that’s another story.
The Saturday nights at the Palace triggered it all off when my sister and I would curl our naked knees into scarlet plush, playing guess the adverts from the front cloth until the supreme moment when the white-gloved MD raised his baton and the splendour began.
We didn’t need a programme to tell us the dancers came first and the star always followed our tubs of ice cream. We chuckled over acts like the armless man we once saw who lit a cigarette with a match held between his toes. Whenever jugglers, balancing acts or singers appeared, my sister and I excused ourselves and went and explored the theatre.
Most popular on our list was the strong man/frightened female act. A huge bemuscled ox-like man in satin trousers, usually bald, would crack his bull-whip repeatedly while his dainty mate would cringe all over the stage. Cymbals crashed and purple lights flashed. We loved it, I couldn’t wait to get home to my whip and top and try it on my sister.
Later on, when I was in panto at the Theatre, our show included a similar act. Night after night we peeped from the wings as he swung his delicate damsel gracefully above his head, then threw her like an empty pop can into a corner, where she spun in ever-decreasing revolutions on her navel until he picked her up and threw her somewhere else.
Curious as to their off-stage relationship, we wondered if he was really so cruel. We chorus girls used to hang around their dressing room listening for clues. Silence. His autograph in my book was even more puzzling. He scrawled ‘May God keep you in the palm of His Almighty hand.’ Was he a Bishop – resting we pondered.
Ah well, that’s show biz.!
