The Christy Minstrel Troupe had two excellent corner men, Frank Brazier and Ernest Ridout. They were a most spirited pair and were full of quips and riddles. One series of riddles, which never failed to bring the house down, was based on Christian names. They asked each other: ‘Have you seen Ann?’ ‘Ann who?’ ‘Anemone,’ and so on for at least ten minutes at a time. Once the questioner got confused and said: ‘Have you seen Tommy?’ The other corner man was puzzled by this and he shook his head gravely, saying: ‘No, I ain’t seen Tommy.’ There was another pause, and then came: ‘ Then have you seen Tom?’ Great relief. ‘Tom who?’ ‘Tomato.’
Of course such little slips appealed very much to the audience.
In its palmiest days, the Christy Minstrel Troupe numbered about thirty men, and one evening we added to their number by setting in the midst of their row of black faces, a patch of ten or twelve women, elaborately made up and wearing white dresses and wigs. We then called them ‘The Black and White Negro Troupe’, and we made a very grand entrance, when my brother Reginald swung open the stage door and led us in, to the tune of ‘Uncle Thomas walks like that’. As our large company stamped round and round the stage to this tune, a stranger in the audience was heard to ask Lady Pembroke: ‘Who are these people?’ The answer she received was: ‘It’s the Miss Oliviers and their brothers.’ There were forty-two of us.
The great entertainment of the year was always held on the Tuesday in Easter week. It was a very old-fashioned function and I think my father must have brought the idea from Great Yarmouth, where he had been a curate in the late ’fifties. It was called the Church Helpers’ Tea, and was attended by Church workers of every kind—school teachers, choirmen, bellringers, district visitors, holders of missionary boxes and what not. The hostesses were six of the chief ladies in the parish and they each presided at a long table which they had loaded with the most delicious food. As we each laid our tables, we eyed the others with envious glances, for there was immense rivalry between the hostesses. Nowadays such a party would be considered very banal, but people enjoyed it very much then. After tea, the plates and dishes were cleared away and replaced by cards, draughts, dominoes and letter games. For the next two hours, the guests happily played away at these games, exchanged the latest gossip, and listened to an occasional song by one of the local vocalists— ‘ The Death of Nelson’, and ‘The Children’s Home’, were special favourites. At the end of the evening my father made a speech. He reported on the Church work of the year and he also said how many people had died in its course, and what their ages had been. Then he told us about the weather and gave a great many other statistics which he always succeeded in making supremely exciting. This speech, which sounds from its subject matter as if it must have been very common place, was always the climax of the evening. At its end we broke into a hymn:
‘Through the night of doubt and sorrow
Onward goes the Pilgrim Band.’
Then we separated for another year.
We once had a very picturesque entertainment which began with some children’s tableaux, arranged by Fred Rawlence and ended with a Fairy Cantata sung by my sister’s class of factory girls. They were charmingly dressed in white gowns, and wore stars on their heads with floating veils. Each carried a silver wand. We thought of a very ambitious and poetic opening to our cantata, singing the first chorus pianissimo before the curtain went up. The words were:
Would’st thou know what sounds are stealing
Through these fair and rural bowers?
As the exquisite notes stole into the room, we singers behind the scenes were aghast to hear the whole audience break into roars of laughter. We bravely sang on, unable to imagine what could have made our music appear farcical. It was not until the entertainment was over that we learnt that the stage, which had been raised about a foot for the children’s tableaux, had been lowered for the cantata, while the curtain was left at its original height. There was therefore a considerable hiatus between it and the new stage level. The fairylike costumes of the chorus had not included their footwear, and, as they listened to the sentimental strains, the audience saw before their eyes about sixty somewhat clumsy ankles clothed in shapeless boots of all ages, most of them sadly trodden down at the heel. The effect was less fairylike than we had hoped.
Many of our entertainments were in aid of the Parish Nurse Fund, and at one of these, the Mayor, a crusted old Wiltshire character, made a speech which ended with this peroration.
‘They say that all nurses are angels, but I’m sure I can truly say that our nurse is an exception to the rule.’
Nurse Turner was slightly deaf, and she smiled on serenely, quite unconscious of this somewhat left-handed compliment.
Perhaps the most amusing entertainment we ever had in Wilton was when we heard the Phonograph for the first time. This was a forerunner of the gramophone. You spoke or sang into
