dwarfish tipsy capitals on the seventh label in the first pile is T. LANE. I unpick the tape that seals the envelope and slip out the York newspaper. I have to turn most of the brittle musty pages before learning that a reviewer thought Thackeray Lane's act at the Players Theatre was 'a good 'un'. That doesn't seem worth thirty pounds, nor does the information that he left a Nottingham columnist feeling giddy, or even a Chester writer's view that Lane was 'too odd for his own good or anyone else's'. By now I'm halfway through the contents of the table, and the stallholder is peering at me as if I've wakened him for nothing. 'Are you buying or just reading?' he's roused to wonder.
'I was rather hoping for a bit more substance.'
'Better keep looking, then.'
I can't judge whether this is an invitation or a dismissal. I take it for the first, though my eyes have begun to ache from squinting at the cramped unbalanced letters. D. LENO, C. CHAPLIN, S. LAUREL, L. TICH ... As I try to speed up the process, because I feel oppressively watched, I turn up an item labelled simply T. LANE. It's an old
'Long way to come to buy a paper.'
I release a polite titter as I unseal the envelope. A desiccated smell that seems old even for the yellowed pages fills my head while I leaf through them in search of the review. There isn't one, and I'm about to say so when the stallholder comments 'He's in there all right. You missed him.'
As I turn the pages in reverse somebody walks backwards at the edge of my vision. I could imagine I'm rewinding the action, an idea so distracting that I almost overlook the item again. It's a news report that occupies an entire column.
MUSIC-HALL PERFORMER BOUND OVER TO KEEP PEACE. PERFORMANCE MUST BE KEPT WITHIN PROPER BOUNDS.
At Preston Crown Court today, the music-hall comedian Thackeray Lane was judged Not Guilty of incitement to riot outside 'The Harlequin Theatre' on the first of January...
According to the report, at the end of his matinee on New Year's Day in 1913 the comedian either led or followed the audience into the street and continued his routine. When a Mrs Talbot began to imitate him and refused to stop 'contorting her face and herself in a variety of comical manners', her husband called the police. Several other witnesses testified that they felt compelled to mimic the comedian and blamed some form of hysteria. The judge ordered Lane to duplicate the act for him to watch, but once the witnesses confirmed that he was doing so the public gallery had to be cleared because of excessive laughter. The charge of incitement to riot became the subject of a legal argument that concluded Lane was technically innocent because he had uttered no verbal or written communication. The judge was reduced to warning that 'the licence of a theatre does not extend beyond its doors' and to binding Lane over to keep the peace for two years. Long before they ended, the comedian was in Hollywood under his new name.
The scenes in court sound like a film of his. I'm wondering if they may have inspired him when I notice there's editorial comment on the opposite page.
DO OUR COURTS NEED A SENSE OF HUMOUR?
Elsewhere in this issue we report the unsuccessful prosecution of the comedian Thackeray Lane for affray. The incident has already been reported and commented upon in several numbers of this publication, and our readers may have recognised Mr. Lane as the comic of whose comedy one member of an audience was said to have died laughing. Although this was a tragedy, we question why the recent case was brought to trial. Anarchy may well be abroad within our shores, but should it be confused with the kind of show which affords so much pleasure to so many of our workers? Perhaps they would be more inclined to rebellion if it were denied them. Our reporter at the trial informs us that even the policemen in the courtroom had to struggle to contain their merriment, so that it was left to the judge to represent solemnity. We admit to hoping that he may have been hiding a secret smile. By all means ensure that comedy respects the boundaries of decency and taste, but do not rob the Lancastrian of his healthy laughter.
There's nothing else about Lane on the stall. I buy the paper and move on to the next of the tables where I heard a response. The table is heaped with vintage posters in transparent sheaths. Several of the posters advertise Thackeray Lane, in each case with a different slogan. NO NEED FOR NOISE. QUIET AS A CHURCH. QUIET AS A CHURCH MOUSE. Did the second one omit a word, or was that added to the last of them to avoid offending the devout? Here's a notice that says he's AS SHUSHED AS A PICTURE, which seems prophetic – and then I notice something more important. Lane has autographed the poster.
The faded signature slants across the bottom left-hand corner. It's so faint that at first the cellophane rendered it invisible. The first name is painstakingly stitched together out of scraps that remind me of wisps of cobweb, but then he seems to have lost patience, scrawling a defiantly elongated L. The letter reminds me of a clown's footwear, and I imagine the signature as a collaboration between an academic and a clown. As I look for the price on the back of the wrapper the stallholder crouches forward, offering me a better view of the tortoiseshell markings of his bald scalp. 'Twenty,' he says in case I can't read the aged peeling tag.
Does that suggest how undervalued Tubby has become? I add another Visa voucher to the sheaf in my wallet and make my way to a video stall, on which the merchandise looks decidedly home-made. Few of the labels on the black plastic cases are straight, and the handwritten information is scanty, but I haven't reached the bottom of the first pile of DVDs when I find one that's labelled LANE 1912. As I pick it up, the man behind the stall nods at me so vigorously that it seems to leave his bushy greying eyebrows too high on his long angular face. 'Behind you,' he says.
I wonder what kind of a production he thinks I'm in until I hear Mark calling my name. He's where the footlights used to be, and waving his hands as if he's batting away his words. 'Just a minute, Mark,' I say and show the label to the stallholder. 'Can you tell me what this is?'
'It's a dithery video disc. They're all the rage.'
I hope his description is a joke, not an indication of the quality. 'Is it Thackeray Lane?'
'Simon, he's up here. Simon.'
'Let me finish this first, Mark.' Since the long-faced man has responded with a nod I ask 'What sort of material?'
'Him on stage off an old film.'
'You've transferred it from a film, you mean? How much?'
'Twenty smackeroonies to you, Mr Lester.'
That isn't the information I was after, but I'm so thrown by his use of my name that my open mouth stays mute. Of course, he heard Mark announce me at the door, and he's gazing at Mark now. The boy is actually dancing with impatience. 'I want to show you,' he complains. 'She won't let me.'
'I'll be there very shortly,' I promise, feeling compelled to direct the kind of smile with which adults sum up children at the stallholder as I hand him my Visa. I add the DVD to my handful of poster and newspaper and turn back to Mark. 'Now, what's the problem?'
He runs to the top of the steps that I climb to the stage. 'There's a comic with him in.'
'Thackeray Lane? Are you certain?'
'Why do you keep calling him that? His name's Tubby.' To my dismay, Mark has started to look tearful. 'It says Tubby in the comic,' he protests.
'It's both, Mark. He started life as Lane. Maybe he got tubbier.' I'm not sure how much of this he hears as he runs to the table spread with old comics. 'Show me, then,' I apparently have to prompt him.
'I'm trying,' he protests and turns his brimming gaze on the woman at the stall. 'Where's it gone? I put it on top.'
'Dear me, we are getting out of control.'
Her tight bundle of colourless hair appears to have tugged her small face thin on its bones and stretched her lips pale. 'Perhaps it isn't here any more,' she says. 'Perhaps I sold it while you were causing such a fuss.'
I see comics featuring Dan Leno and Ben Turpin and Charlie Lynn, but no sign of Tubby. 'All right, Mark,' I say as he contorts his body with frustration. 'Could I see it, please?'
'Is that all you mean to say?'
Presumably she's suggesting I should rebuke Mark, but I won't embarrass him in front of her. 'I think it's all I need to.'
'Dear me again,' she says and produces a comic from beneath the table. 'I was keeping it back for you,' she adds reprovingly enough to cover me as well as Mark.
