Bernard.’
Bernard drew himself up to his full six foot height and snorted theatrically, regaining his old performer’s assurance as he spoke, his voice gaining bass notes and increasing in volume until it rang like a trumpet. He brandished his cigar like a crusader’s banner.
‘Miss Fisher, you know the old saying,’ he said pompously. ‘I’m not going to interrupt the Hinkler gala, the high point of the theatrical calendar – I got the hero of the hour over some mighty stiff bidding from the Prinny, you know – just because someone has tried to kill my Sir Ruthven. Consider our glorious history and the traditions of the Craft. We went on with The Mikado in New Zealand when there was an earthquake. We carried on with Hamlet through the Zeppelin raids in London and when the stage hands went on strike we did not miss one performance of Pirates even though we had to work the lights ourselves and Mollie Webb burned her hands on a follow spot. We soldiered on with The Merry Widow after old Charles had a heart attack in the wings and when that soprano whatever-her-name-was set her hair on fire by standing too near a candle.
The show must go on!’ he declaimed.
Phryne kissed him resignedly and threaded the labyrinth back to her seat, contemplating actors, and deciding that the stage really was another world.
27
The Hero of the Hour was dragged onto the stage at the end of interval to the cheers of the populace. He smiled weakly.
‘Poor Bert,’ commented Bunji, discarding the empty chocolate box and applauding with enough vigour to split her gloves. ‘This’ll take more courage than low flying in fog through them Malay mountains. I hope they aren’t going to force the modest old blighter to talk.’
‘They certainly are going to demand a speech.
Hard cheese if you don’t like being a hero. His mother looks pleased, though,’ returned Phryne.
The small bundle that was Bert Hinkler’s mother was radiating pride and delight.
‘Who wouldn’t, with a son like that?’ observed Captain Larkin. ‘Yes, he’s going to talk. Silence for the hero.’
‘This has been a wonderful reception,’ said Bert Hinkler with a fair show of firmness, ‘and it’s nice to be here. And the performance has been really wonderful and I wouldn’t think of interrrupting it any further,’ he added, and almost bolted off stage and out of the public eye. And off-stage he firmly remained, despite three cheers of such deafening force that plaster flaked off the ceiling and snowed down on the audience.
‘That’s Bert,’ sighed Bunji. ‘It’s no use expecting him to be a lion. He’s good at flying, not talking.’
The ladies sat down again and the curtain opened on a gloomy hall, lined with portraits.
Robert Craven entered, as Sir Ruthven, and 28
managed the patter song with Old Adam competently. He had little presence, but the part carried him. The audience did not appear to have noticed the substitution.
Enter Dick Dauntless and his Rose, singing gaily that she was a neat little, sweet little craft. Sir Ruthven’s attempts to abduct Rose were foiled by the production of a Union Jack, a piece of burlesque which Dick played with complete, self-absorbed seriousness which was irresistibly comic.
Phryne laughed aloud, and Dick Dauntless heard her; there was a heightened alertness in his manner, though he did not deviate from his part by one iota.
Releasing Rose to go off with the sailor, Sir Ruthven confronted his ancestors.
The lights dimmed. ‘Painted emblems of a race all accurst in days of yore’ stepped down from their frames and railed at him. ‘Alas, poor ghost!’
said the kneeling descendant, reminding Phryne of Prince Hamlet – could Gilbert have really been burlesqueing Hamlet ? Well, why not ? It was only a play. She chuckled when she considered what a particularly pompous Shakespearan actor of her acquaintance would think of her calling Hamlet
‘only a play’.
Meanwhile the ghosts had sung a fast,
Bernard drew himself up to his full six foot height and snorted theatrically, regaining his old performer’s assurance as he spoke, his voice gaining bass notes and increasing in volume until it rang like a trumpet. He brandished his cigar like a crusader’s banner.
‘Miss Fisher, you know the old saying,’ he said pompously. ‘I’m not going to interrupt the Hinkler gala, the high point of the theatrical calendar – I got the hero of the hour over some mighty stiff bidding from the Prinny, you know – just because someone has tried to kill my Sir Ruthven. Consider our glorious history and the traditions of the Craft. We went on with The Mikado in New Zealand when there was an earthquake. We carried on with Hamlet through the Zeppelin raids in London and when the stage hands went on strike we did not miss one performance of Pirates even though we had to work the lights ourselves and Mollie Webb burned her hands on a follow spot. We soldiered on with The Merry Widow after old Charles had a heart attack in the wings and when that soprano whatever-her-name-was set her hair on fire by standing too near a candle.
The show must go on!’ he declaimed.
Phryne kissed him resignedly and threaded the labyrinth back to her seat, contemplating actors, and deciding that the stage really was another world.
27
The Hero of the Hour was dragged onto the stage at the end of interval to the cheers of the populace. He smiled weakly.
‘Poor Bert,’ commented Bunji, discarding the empty chocolate box and applauding with enough vigour to split her gloves. ‘This’ll take more courage than low flying in fog through them Malay mountains. I hope they aren’t going to force the modest old blighter to talk.’
‘They certainly are going to demand a speech.
Hard cheese if you don’t like being a hero. His mother looks pleased, though,’ returned Phryne.
The small bundle that was Bert Hinkler’s mother was radiating pride and delight.
‘Who wouldn’t, with a son like that?’ observed Captain Larkin. ‘Yes, he’s going to talk. Silence for the hero.’
‘This has been a wonderful reception,’ said Bert Hinkler with a fair show of firmness, ‘and it’s nice to be here. And the performance has been really wonderful and I wouldn’t think of interrrupting it any further,’ he added, and almost bolted off stage and out of the public eye. And off-stage he firmly remained, despite three cheers of such deafening force that plaster flaked off the ceiling and snowed down on the audience.
‘That’s Bert,’ sighed Bunji. ‘It’s no use expecting him to be a lion. He’s good at flying, not talking.’
The ladies sat down again and the curtain opened on a gloomy hall, lined with portraits.
Robert Craven entered, as Sir Ruthven, and 28
managed the patter song with Old Adam competently. He had little presence, but the part carried him. The audience did not appear to have noticed the substitution.
Enter Dick Dauntless and his Rose, singing gaily that she was a neat little, sweet little craft. Sir Ruthven’s attempts to abduct Rose were foiled by the production of a Union Jack, a piece of burlesque which Dick played with complete, self-absorbed seriousness which was irresistibly comic.
Phryne laughed aloud, and Dick Dauntless heard her; there was a heightened alertness in his manner, though he did not deviate from his part by one iota.
Releasing Rose to go off with the sailor, Sir Ruthven confronted his ancestors.
The lights dimmed. ‘Painted emblems of a race all accurst in days of yore’ stepped down from their frames and railed at him. ‘Alas, poor ghost!’
said the kneeling descendant, reminding Phryne of Prince Hamlet – could Gilbert have really been burlesqueing Hamlet ? Well, why not ? It was only a play. She chuckled when she considered what a particularly pompous Shakespearan actor of her acquaintance would think of her calling Hamlet
‘only a play’.
Meanwhile the ghosts had sung a fast,
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