Southend U3A

January 2024

Pantomime - Pete Norman

If I was to stand at any London theatre entrance and ask a thousand people queuing for a ticket if they knew who Bertrand Higgins was, I would most likely get a thousand blank faces for my troubles.

If, however, I was to ask the same question of anyone backstage in the theatre, then, I would be rewarded with a very different reaction; in their eyes, Bertie Higgins was unique, a man who walked tall despite being barely 5 feet tall in his stockinged feet. No performance could survive without his genius, his perseverance and his ingenuity.

Bertie was an uneducated man without a qualification to his name but no one understood the complicated machinations of stage scenery better than him.

He had started his working life as a carpenter and his skills were exceptional – he could make a saw, a chisel or spoke shave sing – but, unfortunately, he found it very difficult to follow the design the company required and, after a very short time, he and the firm parted company. They complimented him on the quality of his work but they said that they were contracted to produce each object identical to the last without any of his ‘weird personal embellishments’.

Bertie was devastated. He had lost the only job he knew and he hit the bottle. It started off on a small scale, just a little comfort when he was down. However, ‘just a little comfort’ became more and more regular ‘little comforts’ and he plunged deeper and deeper into the abyss.

His saviour turned out to be the very last person he might have expected – Frank Peterson.

Frank had lived near to Bertie for years and occasionally their paths crossed in the Rose and Crown. He knew Bertie was a heavy drinker but he was good company, however, he had not seen him for some time.

Frank was in the local amateur dramatic society, where they were extremely proficient with regards to the words but the interaction amongst the diverse personalities was often problematic and, when a trivial internal rift escalated into a violent confrontation, the society were plunged into a real-life drama. There was precious little time before their next performance and they had just lost the only person who understood scenery.

Nevertheless, in his desperation, he turned to a person who he knew could handle a saw.

When he knocked on the front door it was barely 10 in the morning but Bertie already smelled of drink and his words were slurred. Frank declined a beer and accepted a coffee instead. They talked for ages, they dragged back good times from the past, when they had simply enjoyed each other’s company. They put the world to rights over a second coffee and then Frank tentatively put to him why he had come round in the first place.

Bertie looked him in the eye and said, incredulously, ‘You’re surely not here to ask a lush to make your scenery for you?’

Frank nodded. It had all sounded so easy at the beginning but now he was nowhere near as certain. However, he had run out of all other options and Bertie was his last hope.

The following day Bertie enrolled in Alcoholics Anonymous.

To his expert eye the requirements of the Drama group were no great problem. Together they sketched and amended and sketched until everyone seemed to be happy and he set to work, drinking copious amounts of coffee to replace the demon drink he for so long was dependent upon.

It was only a small theatre but it could not have been fitted out better in any London Theatreland. After the performance he was reluctantly pulled out for the curtain call to take a well-deserved bow alongside the actors. He was embarrassed but proud, not because he had done an amazing job but because he now had a purpose in life.

The theatre group only performed a few times in the year but his reputation and his expertise swept through the business. It wasn’t long before he secured a regular position in an up-and-coming London theatre, a position he accepted only on the proviso that he could take time out whenever his own amateur group required his services.

For a time, life was good . . . but he could never have predicted the horror that was waiting just around the corner.

It was very near to Christmas. It was Jack and the Beanstalk. He had put everything into the challenging scenery and he was immensely proud of his work. In this performance there were more scene changes than usual and some of these were quite complicated to set up but nothing was outside his comfort zone.

When it was only a few minutes to showtime he took a sneaky glance through the curtains. The house was packed to capacity, with children bouncing with excitement and parents trying desperately to survive the last few minutes. He smiled. This was the reason for his existence and he loved it.

The curtains opened and the mayhem began for real.

Bertie’s job now was a mix of long periods of keeping up with the script and watching the clock, followed by moments of frantic physical activity.

It was not long after the interval when everything went horribly wrong.

He was in the middle of a scene change when he smelt it. It was very faint at first but it rapidly grew. He raced around his backstage domain and saw that one of the flimsier backcloths was on fire. It was too high up to reach and he knew that before he had time to do anything there would be an inferno. He screamed out, ‘FIRE!’ at the top of his voice and then he began to empty a carbon dioxide extinguisher into the flames. He could hear the sounds of panic as the audience struggled to drag their terrified children to safety.

All of a sudden, he heard an authoritative voice behind him. ‘I’m an off-duty fireman. How can I help?’ He looked up at the flaming scenery. ‘Why haven’t the sprinklers come on?’

Bertie said, ‘They were tested yesterday . . .’

He dropped his empty extinguisher and then raced over to the other side and grabbed two more. Together they fought the flames until they heard the welcome sirens approaching and the uniformed firemen took over.

As Bertie stepped down from the stage, covered in soot and exhausted, the manager, Mr Saunders, was in deep conversation with the chief fire officer. He looked up and pointed at Bertie. He screamed out, ‘That’s him! That’s the bastard that’s done all of this.’ He held up a half empty whisky bottle and waved it in the officer’s face. The man’s an alcoholic. He’s not fit. He’s put all these people at risk . . . and he’s destroyed my theatre.’

The next few hours were a complete nightmare. The police took Bertie and the bottle back to the station. He had his fingerprints taken, along with his DNA and a breath test; his hands were sniffed carefully by the officer before he swabbed them and then he was placed in a small cell.

When he was eventually brought out for interview, however, the mood had changed somewhat. He was given a cup of tea and the officers made him go through everything, the whole incident, from his day-to-day responsibilities at the Theatre, to the events of that day and, most specifically, the fire precautions. When it came to the allegation of his drinking, Bertie was adamant that he had not touched a drop in years. The officer nodded sympathetically and pointed to the whisky bottle, which was covered with a grey powder.

He smiled. ‘We have compared your prints and there is no trace of them anywhere on the bottle . . . but, most surprisingly, there are prints of Mr Saunders – not only on the neck but around the body as well. Your breathalyser came back completely clear – meaning that you had not consumed any alcohol at all.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And Fire Brigade say that some form of accelerant was used to start the fire – most probably petrol. Now, there is no trace of anything on your hands but . . .’ he smiled again, ‘but we have found traces of petrol on Mr Saunders’ hands . . . and so, Mr Higgins, I think we will need a witness statement from you.’

* * *

The theatre had not been beyond economic repair – as Mr Saunders had clearly hoped – but, under the circumstances, the insurance company had declined to pay out.

From his prison cell, Mr Saunders, with some considerable pressure from a group who called themselves ‘The London Lovies’, signed over ownership of the theatre, at a token price, to Bertie Higgins. He was now not only the technician responsible for the scenery but he also ran the theatre – with a little help from his friends.

It was almost a year later when Bertie stood proudly on the stage again.

He nervously ran his eyes across the excited audience but Frank had assured him that he could leave all the talking to him. It took just a few minutes to explain Bertie’s efforts to restore the theatre to its former glory and that Jack and the Beanstalk would now at last be performed – better late than never. After rapturous applause, Bertie slipped quietly off ‘stage left’ while Frank finished, saying, ‘However, this performance can only start when the performers know that Bertie is . . .’ he waved his hands dramatically at the audience, ‘. . . behind them!’

A roar came back, ‘Oh no he isn’t!’

He smiled as the curtains began to sweep slowly open, ‘Oh yes he is!’