The Good Companions by J. B. Priestley

Author:J. B. Priestley [Priestley, J. B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature, Fiction, Contemporary, Classics
ISBN: 9781905080359
Google: NLzbnAAACAAJ
Amazon: 1905080352
Goodreads: 2233093
Publisher: Great Northern
Published: 1929-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

IV

Wednesday night was better than Monday or Tuesday: there were more people, especially in the cheaper seats, and, perhaps influenced by Miss Thong, who clapped everything, they were a trifle more enthusiastic. Thursday night was better still, but then Thursday was closing-day for the shops. Friday, however, was just as good as Thursday, and rather more appreciative. But none of these - as Mrs Joe said - were what you could really call Nights. There were still rows and rows of empty chairs (the Wood Family, Jimmy Nunn called them); the applause was feeble, scattered, and there was hardly an excuse for an encore; and it was difficult not to feel that the mournful night was drifting in and smothering such enthusiasm as there was in the half-empty pavilion. And now the great question was, Would Saturday be a Night?

‘If Saturday’s a fizzle,’ Mrs Joe announced on Friday night, in the ladies’ dressing-room, ‘I shan’t dare to look Miss Trant in the face, my dears. Dotworth didn’t matter - ’

‘There wasn’t tuppence in the whole rotten little town,’ Elsie put in, rubbing her face far too vigorously. ‘If they had a whist-drive there, they’d want to knock off and stay at home for six months.’

‘But this place is different. It’s supposed to be a good date, and after all it’s only the middle of October. And look what we’ve done,’ Mrs Joe added, dejectedly. ‘Miss Trant will think we’re a lot of Jonahs, that is, if she understands the expression, which I doubt.’

‘Lucky for her!’ cried Susie, that child of the theatre. She pulled her dress over her head, and then remarked on emerging: ‘I must say I’d like to show her a real Night. She’s cheerful enough - bless her! - but I fancy, a full house, money turned away, encores all round, five curtains, speeches, thanks from the manager - the usual “riot” that everybody talks about in the adverts, and hardly anybody ever sees - would buck her up no end. I know it would. And that new number of mine that Jimmy and Inigo have written is only waiting for an audience that isn’t sitting there just to hear God Save the King. It’s just crying out, ladies, for a few live ones in front.’

‘Exactly,’ said Mrs Joe. ‘Experienced as I am - and very few artistes who are artistes have struck more dead frosts than I have in my time - I cannot, no, I can not, sing to chairs. I can feel the empty spaces, my dear, I assure you I can, and you’ve no idea how it wrecks my interpretation. I told Miss Trant this morning when I met her on the front: I said “Properly speaking, you’ve not heard me really interpret a song yet.” But I didn’t tell her why. I felt it would have been adding insult to injury - not that I’ve done her any injury, but you know what I mean?’

They did know what she meant, and they all sighed in chorus for a Night.

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