An actor, that's what I'd always wanted to be. We'll, perhaps not quite always. In childhood, I had run the usual gamut of engine driver, fireman, policeman and soldier, but at fifteen, I had my first taste of audience applause, and that was it. I was lost to all sane society.
In high school productions of plays and musicals I basked in the plaudits of my admiring fans – well, mostly mum, dad and my grandparents. I knew I was destined to make it to the top on the stage, in films, or in any branch of the entertainment industry you cared to name.
After high school and a job in the local supermarket replenishing stock on the shelves, I became the pride of the local Amateur Dramatic Society. Any role that I wanted I got, but looking back to that time I now know it was because they could never get any young men to audition, except me.
Aged twenty I left behind the "little town blues" and the admonitions of my parents, and headed for the big city to meet my histrionic predestination.
I had saved a huge sum of money from my labours in the supermarket, that in fact lasted about two weeks once I arrived in the metropolis. It covered the rent security I had to put down for one miserable room, and allowed me to eat for a fortnight.
I had little idea how one went about entering the world of professional acting, except that I had heard you needed an agent. I got to work with the telephone directory looking up theatrical agents. There were several listed, and so I began the rounds. What I didn't know was that these agents wanted a "deposit," before they would put you on their books. I afterwards learned that once the deposit was paid, and your name was on their books, the chance of ever hearing from them again was negligible.
Thus, by the end of one week, with the "massive" savings now seriously depleted, I was in trouble. It was rammed home to me in the lonely city, that I had to get some means of sustenance. But what skills did I have to offer, apart from restocking shelves and the untapped star quality of my acting?
Alas, restocking supermarket shelves did not seem to stand very high in the "Help Wanted" advertisements. One blurb did catch my attention. It was some company calling themselves, "The House of Marguerite." They wanted an " Intelligent and presentable young man to work in our Forwarding Department."
"Intelligent"? Well, more or less. "Presentable"? Most definitely. No other qualifications being asked for, I felt I could safely assume the job was mine. I rang the number on the advert, and was treated to a foreign sounding female voice. I was to present myself the following morning at their "establishment, nine thirty sharp."
Next morning I arrived at the appointed time dressed in what I hoped was a "presentable" manner and impeccably shaved.
The exterior of the building was something of a disappointment, its façade presenting itself in soot stained brick. Inside it was even less inspiring, and I had to climb two flights of creaking wooden stair before arriving at a door marked, "The House of Marguerite."
On entering, I found myself to be in a large room, the walls of which were made up largely of mirrors. Very distracting to see one's self in images apparently disappearing into infinity. However, there was an air of sophistication present. Around the room on tables was what looked like large portfolios. Being apparently alone I was about to examine one of these, when a mirror swung open, and a beady eyed little goblin entered.
The goblin stared at me for a moment then said in a creaking voice, " 'Arper, ain't it?"
"Er…yes. Raymond Harper."
"Ah! I'm 'Arfur (Arthur) Buggs. This way, 'Arper."
I was signaled to pass through the door he had just entered by, and found myself in a heavily chromium plated office. Behind a chrome and glass desk sat a woman of considerable presence.
She seemed to be somewhere between thirty and forty-years of age, and had a glittering cataract of blonde hair, "Compliments of her hairdresser," I thought. Her face was long and thin, with a slightly beaky nose over a wide sensual mouth. Her eyes, a sort of piercing green, were made up in the style one sees in pictures of aristocratic females in ancient Egypt, very black.
Seen as a whole I must say she looked pretty handsome, but I couldn't quite work out why.
The goblin indicated that I should approach the desk and its occupant, and as I did so the woman stopped looking at the paper she was pretending to read, glanced up at me, and rose.
As women go, she was rather awe-inspiring. About five feet ten tall, long slender neck, around 38b bras I conjectured, and from what I could see, long, slender legs. She was dressed in a shiny red dress that in my ignorance I thought was pure silk. I later found out it was a cheap artificial silk, and I advise you ladies not to buy it because it will not hold its shape for long.
The neckline and the hem of the dress seemed to be having a race to see which of them could reach her waist first. Much breast and leg was definitely exposed. My actual thought was "Is she on the outside of that dress trying to get in, or the inside trying to get out?"
Before I could contemplate this question further the goblin, who had entered behind me, croaked, "This is 'Arper, Madame. 'Arper, this is Madame Marguerite."
Madame flowed round the desk towards me with heavily ringed hand extended.
"Welcome to our establishment, Mr.'Arpeer." I detected an attempt at a phony French accent.
Her hand closed over mine in an attempt at sincerity, but only succeeded in causing me pain from the bristling array of spiky rings.
She smiled at me with what I suppose was intended to be a benign smile, but gave the distinct impression of a hawk that had just spotted its prey.
"Please be seated, Meester 'Arpeer. You have already met my partner, Meester Buggs?" Her voice was very melodious.
"Yes, Madame."
"Excellent, most excellent. And you would like to join our establishment, Meester 'Arpeer?" I was now seated, and she loomed over me wafting little puffs of perfume with every movement she made.
Trying to look like a keen candidate for the office, whatever it was, I sat up straight and replied, "Yes, Madame."
"Ah, is he not a pretty young man, Meester Buggs?"
"Humph."
"Do you not think he would suit us most admirably?"
"Humph."
I had expected some of that self-important but quite pointless cross-questioning that most prospective employers like to indulge in. It does nothing to help select the right person for employment, but it does help the employer's self-esteem.
The Buggs "Humph" appeared to settle the matter. I was amazed at the ease with which I had gained the post.
My amazement was somewhat diminished, or perhaps I should say, it took a different turn, when the matter of my duties and salary were discussed.
I had been rather taken with the environment, and pictured myself being very svelte and elegant, greeting customers in the mirror room with grace and ease. From this dazzling height I came crashing down when the salary was announced. It proved to be about sufficient to provide a mouse with cheese for one day in seven.
Before actually being told about my tasks, I was informed concerning the status of the House of Marguerite.
"We are importeers of fine cloth and fabreec," said Madame. "We sell only to the most respected tailoring and dress making companies. Is that not correct. Meester Buggs?"
"Humph."
"Your task will be in the preparation of the cloth and its distribution. By the by, is not your name Raymon?"
"Yes, Madame, Raymond." I stressed the D, but to no effect.
"I think while working here, you shall be 'Our Meester Raymon'. Do you not agree, Meester Buggs?"
"Humph."
"Now I will show you your room. This way, Raymon."
There was a second door in the room and she opened it and invited me to step inside. My illusion now finally collapsed. I entered a dingy windowless room lined with shelves containing bolts of cloth. Down the centre of the room ran a large table with measurements marked along the edge, and a large pair of shears lying on it.
To cut a long story short, my job was to receive orders for cloth, cut the length required, parcel it up and get it to the customer.
Buggs abandoned his "Humph," and croaked, "And not a millimetre more than they order."
Without asking me whether I would take the job, I was told to arrive at 8.30 a.m. Monday morning. Thus began my career as a cutter and dispatcher. My acting career seemed to be disappearing over the horizon, but when hunger looms and rent is demanded, needs must.
In the following weeks no word came from either of the two theatrical agents I had handed over money to. I worked in my unpleasant room cutting and parceling cloth, sometimes giving extra length to spite Buggs. I soon came to understand that "Fine cloth and fabric" were misnomers for "Rubbish."
Occasionally I was in the mirror room when a customer was present. If so, I was introduced as, "Our Meester Raymon." A few times, I was invited to join the gathering in a glass of cheap sweet champagne.
From what I saw of the customers they consisted of shabby looking little men who should have been selling "Feelthy Postcards" at docksides in the days of the ocean liners, or tough looking women who seemed best suited to mud-wrestling.
The artificial sophistication of the mirror room soon failed to impress me any longer, and the elegance of Madame was shaken for me when I overheard a squabble between her and Buggs. Her line was something like, "You're a tight fisted little bastard," and his riposte was, "And you a conniving bitch." I'm afraid the "French accent," disappeared with the rest of my fantasies.
My job was very boring, but I still had stars in my eyes, and expected any day that one of my agents would ring to let me know I had the leading role in something or the other. The job gave me some sort of income, and when after a month I was told I had "geeven satisfaction," and my pay was to be increased, I decided to hang on for a while longer.
Madame announced the increase in the presence of "Meester Buggs," saying, "He deserves it, does he not, Meester Buggs?"
"Humph."
The increase would allow my imaginary mouse to have cheese for two days out of seven, instead of one.
As time went on and my dreams of thespian fame faded, Madame seemed to spend more time with me in the stock room. She was always lively but never asked personal questions. Her presence helped relieve the boredom, and I started to look forward to her intrusions into my grotty empire.
