Reggie Oliver - Mrs. Midnight and Other Stories

MRS MIDNIGHT
and Other Stories

Reggie Oliver

Tartarus Press

Mrs Midnight and Other Stories

by Reggie Oliver

Published by Tartarus Press, 2011 at

Coverley House, Carlton-in-Coverdale, Leyburn,

North Yorkshire, DL8 4AY, UK

All stories Reggie Oliver, 2011

All artwork Reggie Oliver, 2011

FOR A.T.

MRS MIDNIGHT

Whats the worst thing about being a celebrity? The intrusive press coverage? Forget it! I do. No. Its being roped into these charity projects, because nowadays youve got to be hands on, or they mark you down as a complete toe-rag. Oh, look at Lenny Henry , they say , look at Julie Walters: they werent prepared just to swan around like celebs, they got their hands dirty, their feet wet: they endangered some extremity or other. And if you present a programme like I Can Make You a Star , youre generally assumed to be someone who got where they are by being lucky , or sleeping with the right people, so you have to prove yourself all the more. Well, I got to be the presenter of I Can Make You a Star by sheer hard graft, and it tops the ratings because I am bloody good at my job. My qualifications: a first class honours degree in the University of Life, having passed my entrance exam from the School of Hard Knocks with straight As in all subjects. Thats the sort of bloke I am, as if anyone gives a flying fuck. Pardon my French. Anyway, that was why I was recruited to head up the Save the Old Essex Music Hall project.

The Old Essex: what can I say about the Old Essex? Its a glorious relic of those magical bygone days of Music Hall? No, it isnt. Its a filthy, rat-infested, dry-rotten, draughty, crumbling, mildewed dump that hasnt had anything to do with show business for well over a hundred years. Most recently it has been a hangout for winos and junkies; before that it was a warehouse and a motorcycle repair shop. Before that, God knows. The only reason its survived is that some nutter slapped a preservation order on it. A few of its original features have remained intact, not that theyre much to write home about. But I cant say all this, can I? I have to say something like: Its an amazing piece of living history which must be revived to serve the needs of the modern community. Call me a cynic, if you like. I prefer the word realist.

The Old Essex fronts onto Alie Street, Whitechapel, and it was in some godforsaken courtyard round the back of it that Jack the Ripper did for one of his victims. Which one? Look it up for yourself. I have never understood why people should take the remotest interest in that squalid old monster, whoever he or she was. Eh? Well, why shouldnt it have been a she ? Im no sexist; Im an equal opportunities sort of guy, me. I merely mention the fact, just to give you an impression of the kind of glorious, heritage-packed part of London were talking about. As a matter of fact it was shortly after the Ripper murder that there had been a fire at the Old Essex, after which it stopped being a theatre, and embarked on its chequered history as a hangout for bikers and junkies. God knows how or why it escaped the Blitz: the Devil told Hitler to give it a miss, I reckon.

It was a mad March day when I first saw the Old Essex and the rain was blowing in great icy gusts across the East End. Even though it was eleven in the morning the sky was nearly black, and streetlights were reflected fitfully in the water-lashed pavements. There were three of us who got out of the minicab outside the Old Essex, all kitted-out with yellow hard hats, Day-Glo jackets and torches. There was Jill, a bloke with the stupid name of Crispin de Hartong, and me, Danny Sheen, as if you didnt know. There was also supposed to be a camera crew, to film the whole thing for posterity, but their van had got losta likely story!and they didnt show up till a lot later.

Jill was the reason I was in on the project, as a matter of fact. Her name is Jill Warburton and she has some sort of cultural adviser job in the Mayors Office and had adopted this project as her baby. I hadnt much taken to her when she first rang me up because she had a posh accent, but at least she wasnt pushy so I invited her to come round to see me at my house in Primrose Hill. After a few minutes in her company I felt easier about her. Im not saying shes a raving beauty or anything, but she looks nice. Shes tall and quiet. She laughed at the jokes I made, and she wasnt faking it. That counts a lot with me. I know it sounds weird of me to say this, but she seemed to me like a good person. So I agreed to help the project, before almost instantly regretting it, and that was why I was here, about to inspect a derelict building in the pouring rain.

The other bloke tagging along, Crispin de Hartong, was there because he was an architectural expert. He was also a minor celeb who pronounces on that TV property makeover show, Premises, Premises ... you remember: hes the poncy type who goes in for shoulder length blonde hair, bow ties and plum-coloured velvet jackets. I got the impression that he had his eye on Jill, and maybe that didnt exactly endear him to me.

The frontage of the Old Essex is mostly boarded up now to stop the druggies getting in. Jill undid a number of padlocks and we entered. At least were out of the rain, I thought.

We shine our torches around and immediately Crispin starts raving about pilasters and spandrels and architraves. I dont want to hear all this rubbish, especially as I know he is just showing off to Jill. I only want to look.

We are in what I suppose was once the foyer. It is quite a narrow space and everything has been covered at some stage with a thick mud-coloured paint. The floor is covered in rubble and bits of plasterwork that have fallen from the ceiling, some of them quite recently, so I am glad we are wearing our hard hats. Our feet crackle and crunch on the floor. The most powerful thing in this area is the smell: its a mixture of damp, decay, dust and death. You know when your cat has brought a dead rat or something into the house and has left its remains somewhere. Then you get that awful sweetish smell that seems to stick in your nostrils and as you havent the nose of a dog and your cat cant tell you, you drive yourself mad trying to find out where it is coming from.

The other thing that I dont like is that theres a draught that feels like its come straight from the Arctic, but, like the smell, I cant locate its source. I wet my finger and put it up to gauge the direction, but its no use. Now I have a numb finger.

Lets go into the auditorium, shall we? says Jill. She opens another temporarily padlocked door and we enter the Hall proper.

This is something of a shock. After the reeking claustrophobia of the foyer, it seems vast. The roof looks as high as a cathedrals and we can see a little without our torches because grey shafts of light come down at crazy angles from holes in the roof and from broken windows on either side high up. Through these shafts of light little sprinkles of rain fall down from outside like silver dust. We have come in under a gallery which curves in a great horseshoe around the auditorium supported by thin wrought iron columns. Facing us is the desert of an auditorium stripped of its original seating, and strewn about with all sorts of debris from its motorcycle and junkie days.

Watch out for the odd used needle, said Jill. As you can see we havent even begun the clearing up operation.

Beyond the auditorium is an oblong black hole which I assume to be the orchestra pit and then the remains of a raised stage, its floorboards cracked and rotten, with a dirty great hole in the middle. Part of the stage is thrust forward into the pit beyond a great rounded proscenium arch behind which hang a few tattered threadbare remnants of curtains and stage cloths. Close to the stage, at either side under the wings of the gallery I can just detect the remnants of two long bars where customers once drank as they watched the entertainment. I feel as if I am breathing an eternity of dust and decay. I dont think I would have liked the place even when it was alive. It would have been too much like a giant version of those Northern clubs where I once had a brief inglorious career as a comic.