HALIFAX at last! Which sounds rather like reaching the Promised Land, the comparison being borne out to some extent by the wearisome journey contingent on my arrival; had it been Halifax, Nova Scotia, it could not have taken much longer or been much more crowded with incident.

The circumstances incidental to my arrival were hardly calculated to counteract the poor reputation of the town for comfort and elegance of which I had been a frequent oral recipient, a cold and pitiless rain in the small hours not being the best of mediums for viewing novel surroundings.

Business of importance had necessitated my presence in London for a few hours on the Sunday, and the summons being quite unexpected I preferred to travel back the same night to making an unannounced appearance at home at a late hour and being thereby compelled to travel most of the next day with the certainty of making a "first appearance in this town" of a fatigued description.

There was also an additional motive in the shape of an intermittent attack of economy, to which I am very occasionally subject, and which foolishly suggested the idea that the night journey would eliminate the otherwise obvious hotel bill.

This praiseworthy resolution, like many another, proved better in theory than practice, but it was possibly my own fault in selecting a train which should have gone direct, but, in some mysterious manner, side-slipped and threw me out at York.

I have, in common with many people who should know better, always prided myself on a capacity to thoroughly understand Bradshaw, indeed I have frequently picked up his guide for an odd five minutes of light reading, when I have devised trips which I should like to have made, but on this occasion I discovered later that I had overlooked a train which, for some occult reason, was given in abnormally small figures and which would not only have given me an extra hour in town but would have travelled direct and arrived at the same time as the one I carefully selected, but as this is one of the traps which Bradshaw lays for his readers I was consoled by the thought of the pleasure it would afford him when he heard that I had fallen into it.

The arrangement of train time-tables has always been a matter of wonder and admiration to me, and I have always had a great desire to meet Bradshaw and tell him what I think of some of his tricks, but when I consider the number of heads which have been put together on the compilation and production of the play in which I am now appearing – viz. The Girl in the Train – which deals with only one train, I am forced to the conclusion that more than one hand goes to the framing of railway tables and that, ergo, Bradshaw is a myth, and should be "and Co," a Q.E.D. which I arrive at with regret as dispelling another illusion of youth.

But to my train. From London to York I slept fitfully in a much overheated compartment, being frequently aroused by sonorous choruses chanted by a team of victorious footballers on the next coach, who were returning to their northern fastnesses full of goals and beer; at York, where I had to change and wait some fifteen minutes, I was much cheered by a cup of some hot beverage which I was informed was meant to represent coffee, which it did very feebly, and then came the deviation, from York to Leeds, which the later train would have avoided. It was during this part of the journey that I appreciated the kindness of motive in Bradshaw's trap, for, as we rushed along through wolds and on the tops of moors in a grey dawn, presaging a stormy day, the effect was one never to be forgotten, causing me to break forth into the lines at the end of this chapter, which any reader who is so minded can skip.

To the artistic eye there may be discernible a slight deterioration in the style of the coaches working this journey as compared with those of the main artery, and on making a final change at Leeds for Halifax this subtle distinction became still more strongly marked, the "local" train seeming to express (no joke) the feeling that "if you will travel at these unearthly hours you must think yourself lucky to get there in anything!" However, about six o'clock I did arrive, the only passenger, with not even a friendly porter to greet me and tell me where I lived, and the rain falling in torrents. I put myself under the guidance of a burly operative of sorts, who seemed anxious for a job, not without certain misgivings of being beguiled into some side street and robbed, which were absolutely without foundation, for he led me straight to the house, my troubles as I thought being ended, but I was wrong again; ring and knock as I might I could awake no one except the décolletée-looking landlady of the house two doors off, who inquired with much cordiality if I wanted rooms; I presume she must be on the watch, night and day, for customers, as she betrayed no surprise at the unearthly hour of my arrival.

I informed her that I had some rooms but couldn't get in, so she retired with a snort of annoyance and contempt, and I took up a position in the centre of the street (it was still raining in torrents) and yelled "Plummer!" at the top of my voice, till I thought the police would interfere. The door was at last opened by a somnolent youth, who said he "thought he'd heard something!" and was kind enough to take me absolutely on trust and show me to the sitting-room before retiring to his broken rest.

After an interlude of lager beer and bread and butter, which I annexed from a cupboard without any knowledge of their legal owner, I went exploring for my bedroom, carrying in my hand a large slice wherewith to appease anything or anybody I might meet, and the first room I entered contained Plummer, fast asleep; I woke him and he said he had distinctly heard me calling him but thought it was a dream, as I was not expected for hours; not recognising his right to dream of me at all, I insisted on his eating the bread and butter, in the hope that a worse dream would follow, discovered my own room and was soon sleeping the sleep of the wearied traveller whose troubles are over, but as I dosed off I recognised that the economical tendency, which had been the origin of the scheme, had failed to materialise, as, owing to the footballers, I had first of all paid eleven shillings' excess from London to York; then the porter at York had naturally transferred my dressing-case from one first-class carriage to another on the branch line – being a first-class traveller was proof of my inability to carry it myself – four shillings more; then another carried it from one station to the other at Leeds, another shilling, and by that time I had become so convinced of the futility of further endeavours at saving money as to resolutely "book" first class for the rest of the journey; the extra sovereign or so thus invested in false economy would have furnished a bed and breakfast of more than moderate expanse, but I should have been robbed of an experience which I thoroughly enjoyed retrospectively.

There is excellent golf at Halifax, and on the far side of the hills, among the spurs of the moor, it was very pleasant to hear the grouse calling their appreciation of a good stroke, a cheerful sound which I heard twice in one day. This is not to be taken as a confession of bad play on my part, which would perhaps excuse a certain amount of grousing, but rather a testimony of the superexcellence of the two strokes in question. The journey out to the links on the tram is well worth the time and trouble, even to a non-golfer, on account of the magnificent views presented as the car travels higher and higher up the hills which surround the town in all directions, and it is a quaint sight to look across valleys and see other trams outlined on the sky-line and looking like crawling flies, with others coming down hills like the side of a house, holding on by their feet. Our particular car stopped carefully some half-mile from the links, but a cautiously tendered bribe of a shilling resulted in the extra distance being negotiated, at which I felt rather pleased, until informed that it was quite legal and at the option of any traveller wishing to traverse the extra bit.

Miss Clarice Mayne was appearing at the Variety Theatre during the week we were there, with her talented actor accompanist, Mr Tate, singing her celebrated song, "I'm longing for Someone to Love Me," and she also made her first appearance on the links under his tuition one day when we were out there playing, braving a very heavy hailstorm with the courage and enthusiasm proper to a beginner. We passed them at the second hole, Miss Mayne having twice missed the ball entirely, and I could not resist paraphrasing her song and chanting, "I'm longing for Someone to 'Hit' Me! – "a reflection on her skill which seemed not only to amuse her but also to stimulate her efforts, for she immediately hit the ball well, and very nearly myself with it.

Hull was the next town we visited on the tour, and it being my third visit within the last two years or so it felt rather like coming home, a feeling intensified by the greetings awaiting me from personal friends. I also had a married niece in residence at Beverley, a visit to whom brought in its train a stroll round this wonderfully picturesque old town, where there are countless "bits" to be found which would delight an artist with a sense of colour in old walls and quaint buildings.

It was while we were in Hull that the news of King Edward's serious illness became the one topic of conversation, and there was a most distinctly felt air of uneasiness and concern which seemed to affect everybody and everything, and when the terrible news came of the fatal termination of the illness, its appalling suddenness seemed to leave us absolutely breathless with consternation and grief, the dominant feeling, even with those who had never set eyes upon him, being that of the loss of one's dearest and most intimate personal friend – a striking tribute to the grand personality of the King who had so endeared himself to every single individual of his subjects as a man.

The night before the dreaded news arrived we went through our work in an atmosphere of tension which was evidently shared to its full extent by the audience, and the whole proceedings were so perfunctory as to afford an experience which I can never forget and which I trust will never be repeated.

After the Friday night's performance we, of course, closed down and found our way home to London, a day earlier than would otherwise have been the case, and thus concluded a tour which I shall always look back upon with a grateful remembrance of many happy times with very pleasant associates.

I had been touring for so long that it felt quite strange on the following Monday morning not to be rushing off to some provincial city, and indeed it was some weeks before I finally realised that I had at last secured the London engagement which is the ambition of so many actors on tour; at the moment of writing this that engagement has lasted close upon nine months, and looks quite likely to record yet another nine, The Girl in the Train being evidently a first- class traveller, who appears to have taken out a season ticket, but with the additioned privilege of being able to transfer her "season-ticket" to other representatives of the part, Miss Phyllis Dare having had four successful successors who have in turn changed at Vaudeville Junction and taken other lines; as a matter of fact I am the only passenger who has made the complete journey without a stop.

I conclude this chapter, as I threatened, with my attempt to describe in verse one of the episodes on my journey to Halifax, and may perhaps be allowed to reiterate the hint that there is no binding obligation to read it.

DAWN ON THE MOORS

There is a wind which blows when dawn is near
And all the world is lying calm and still;
And whatso'er may be the time of year
This wind, or faint or strong, is always chill!
Just as our forces fail at ebb of tide,
Which brings the weakest hour of all to man,
So does the desolated countryside
Appear to suffer from the self-same ban!

Come to this window here, and watch with me
The soft grey dawning of this April day,
And turn your eyes, the misty shapes to see
Of beech and elm and larch in feathered spray.
We rush and roar along in speeding train
Out on the top of undulating wolds
Which are a-glint with newly-fallen rain
That greets us as the silv'ry dawn unfolds.

What are those forms fantastic, dancing there
Out on the misty moorlands' rise and fall?
Are they gay cavaliers and ladyes fair
Beneath the trees they deem a pillared Hall?
See how the sunrise with its first faint gleam
Throws on these shapes an opalescent mist,
Lends them the colours of an artist's dream
Such as you find in cobweb new sun-kist!

What is the measure which they tread so fast,
These slender wraiths by April dawning drest?
So strenuous, they sink to earth at last,
As though in yearning for their long day's rest!
Smoke from the engine, say you? Surely no!
Visions evoked by thoughts of other dawns!
See! There is one whose graceful form I know!
Who oft has paced with me on trim-kept lawns.

And look! The Sun is tinging all the skies
With promise of another heav'n-sent day
Such as, alone, she gives me, when her eyes,
So tender, sweet and true, are turned my way!
The Day is come! And she – who knows it near –
And knows me lonely – sees me, in her sleep –
Comes with it! For a moment, brief but clear,
We are together! Lovers' tryst to keep!

Page modified 3 February 2008