“I was outside a lunatic asylum one day, busy picking up stones
When along came a lunatic and said to me, ‘Good morning, Mr. Jones;
Oh, how much a week do you get for doing that?’
‘Thirty bob,’ I cried.”
“There ain’t no finer music hall star than Jimmy Doyle, lads, not in the whole bleedin’ world,” Jim Sheffield yelled.
His two boys didn’t hear their father. They were too caught up in Jimmy’s performance, playing out on the brightly lit stage below. Like every member of the audience, the boys were stomping and singing along to his famous rendition of “Come Inside, You Silly Bugger.”
It delighted Jim to see Clive and Edward enjoying themselves so much. Wasn’t that what being a father was all about, bringing joy to your children? And they wouldn’t be boys for long. Soon, they’d have to deal with all the harsh shite that came with being grown-up. So what was the harm in it, taking them to a brand-new London music hall on its opening night? It was something they’d never ever forget.
To hell with his wife, complaining about the one-quid admission for the dress circle. The fancy first-balcony level was worth every penny. Jim remembered his granny, who could scarcely afford it, taking him weekly to the Norwich Hippodrome. Two hours with amazing people who could make you laugh till you cried—she’d always believed that was worth missing a meal or a pint.
And what a place! The new Britannia Empire was beautiful, Jim thought, looking up at the huge domed ceiling. Real electric lights twinkled above him like stars in the night sky. The elegant white plasterwork on the face of the horseshoe-tier balconies that wrapped around the theatre reminded him of crème frosting on a wedding cake. Plush, red velvet, soft as a kitten, covered the seats. When the audience had filed in, they’d been so taken with the beauty of the interior that they’d actually cheered and applauded the theatre itself. The Britannia was bloody magical.
“He looked at me and shook his head,
And this is what he cried,
‘What, thirty bob a week, with a wife and kids to keep?
Come inside, you silly bugger, come inside.’”
Jimmy, who wore baggy checked trousers, a red derby, and a long, blue satin frock coat, started kicking out his gangly legs, dancing back and forth across the stage. The orchestra picked up on the excitement and played louder and faster, delighting the crowd, which sang louder and stamped their feet harder and faster. Jimmy, the music hall legend, had that special skill to make the audience feel like they were part of what was going on onstage. He had the house in the palm of his hand, and he loved it.
Jim playfully slapped Clive’s back, and the boy beamed at his father.
“‘Come inside, you silly bugger, come inside.
You ought to have a bit more sense.
Working for a living? Take my tip;
Act a little screwy and become a lunatic.
Oh, you get your meals regular, and a brand-new suit besides.
Thirty bob a week, no wife and kids to keep.
Come inside, you silly bugger, come inside.’”
The orchestra played even louder, the brass section pounding away furiously. To keep the momentum going, they launched into another chorus.
That’s when Jim felt a slight vibration in the bottoms of his shoes. It traveled through the heavy leather soles into his feet like an electrical current. He looked about and saw other patrons staring down in bewilderment. Clive and Edward were doing the same, with puzzled looks on their faces. And all the while, the orchestra and Doyle played on.
An ear-splitting crack sounded, as though someone had crashed cymbals next to Jim’s ears. The house lights flickered, and the high-pitched screech of bending steel filled the air, adding to the terrible cacophony. Just as Jim’s panic-stricken eyes met his sons’, the floor collapsed beneath him. He dropped like a rock, Clive and Edward plummeting alongside, their arms flailing above their shoulders.
Now, instead of a happy, raucous song, nonstop screaming filled the theatre.
• • •
A half hour later, Douglas Layton stood across Shaftesbury Avenue. Feeling as though he were trapped in an unending nightmare, he watched the police carry body after body out of the Britannia Empire Theatre—the music hall he had designed.