Brrr. It's freezing out here on Lavender Hill. It feels like all the winds have come raging over the Thames to come terrorise south London tonight.
I bounce around on the pavement, willing the traffic lights to change.
This is my last trip to Battersea Arts Centre of the marathon and I don't want to be late. Or freeze to death before I even get there.
Now, I know you. And I can tell that you've been counting up all my BAC trips on your fingers, and you're gearing up to lecture me about all the other venue space they've got which I haven't been to yet. But I'm going to stop you right there. Have you seen Battersea Arts Centre? I mean, obviously you have. But have you really taken note of how many rooms they got going on in that place? Hundreds. And any one of them is a potential theatre. It's impossible. You could do a year-long theatre marathon in that building alone. So, this is it. I've done the Grand Hall. That's the biggie. And the Council Chamber. And the Recreation Room. And I'm on my way to see something in the Members’ Bar. That's four theatres. And I think that's enough. The whole point of this marathon was to experience the different theatres, and I think after tonight I'll have the BAC experience down.
So yeah, don't be coming at me because I didn't go to the Porter's Room or whatever. Because, I totally tried. I've been keeping tabs on where all their shows have been for ten months now. And I haven't seen anything come up.
With relief I spot the bright lights of the BAC shining out in the darkness and I skuttle up the stone steps and through the wooden doors into the lobby.
I pause, looking around.
Last time I was here there was a desk set up against that wall for the box office, but it's empty tonight.
I pass through the next set of doors, into the main foyer, with its glorious bee-patterned mosaic floor.
It's quiet tongiht. There's a group in the corner, chatting around a table, and there's a bit of buzz going on in the bar, but otherwise, it's almost deserted.
I can see the box office though. A small desk tucked up next to that grand staircase.
"Hi!" I say, pulling off my gloves with relief. It's lovely and warm in here. "The surname's Smiles?"
The box officer opens her mouth to say something, but I get there first.
"It's for A Haunted Experience," I tell her.
"That's brilliant," she says with a nod, looking through the ticket box. I notice she's wearing a great big badge, asking me to ask her about a free drink. That's weird. "What's the first name please?"
I tell her. Should I ask her about the drink?
"Great! That's your ticket and your card receipt. The house is opening soon. You're upstairs."
I decide not to pursue the drink angle.
I don't even go to the bar. I probably should. What with it being my last trip to BAC and my last opportunity to write about it. But honestly, what I want is to to sit on one of those wooden school chairs and just... not talk to anyone for a few minutes.
It's so warm, and quiet, and cosy, I feel myself getting dozy and I have to stifle a yawn.
I know how this place works. When the house opens, the usher standing on the stairs will make an announcement and we'll all traipse up. All I have to do is settle down and wait.
Above the staircase there's a sign. It says hope.
All the lights are out.
That better not be a metaphor.
It's five to eight.
A woman sitting near me gets up and goes to talk to the usher on the stairs.
"Yeah, it hasn't opened yet," says the usher brightly. "But it's up the stairs and to the left."
The left, eh? That's exciting. I haven't been to any of the rooms on the left. Good thing I decided to pay this place one more visit.
A few minuts later, the annoucement comes.
"The house is now open for A Haunted Experience."
People emerge from every corner, and we start to make our way up the stairs, turning left, then right, and heading down to the end of the corridor.
I'm glad all this lot know where they're going, because I have no idea.
Right at the end, there's a table set up with stacks of plastic cups ready for drinks to be poured into.
And a front of houser, a pile of freesheets slung over her arms, ready to check tickets.
"Can I get one of those?" I say, indicating the freesheets.
"Sure you can," she says. She tries to pull one free, but they're all clinging together. "If I can get one loose," she laughs. She manages to peel one apart though and hands it to me.
Freesheet acquired, I go through the door. There's a ticket checker waiting on the other side. "That's grand," she says as I show mine to her. "You're in the second row. That's round the stage and up the stairs, and you're on the end there." She points at my seat, which, as it happens, is right by where we're standing.
I need to go round the long way though. There's a bit of a railing situation going on.
The seats are a single raked bank. Set within a large room displaying the kind of decayed elegance that is very chic at the moment in the world of theatre. The walls are a collage of paint jobs-past, speckled with missing plaster. Large windows have been bordered up with heavy-duty shutters involving wooden planks and metal rods. These are the kind of shutters a vampire would install in his holiday home. Not a scrap of sunlight would dare attempt to get in past those.
As the usher cheerfully guides the rest of the audience to their seat, I get comfy in mine.
Three record players line up in front of us, glowing in their individual spotlights. A black cloth has been hung up behind them.
I don't know what to make of any of it.
I'll admit I have no idea what I booked for, just the title was intriguing and the venue required.
I look at the freesheet.
There's a photocopy of a newspaper clipping. The heading is: A Pestilence. It's about the surprising number of "homosexual crimes" being brought before the assizes.
Something tells me we're not going to get a cheeky ghost story tonight.
The lights dim.
Tom Marshman appears behind the black curtain, made sheer by the lighting.
He stands with his back to us, his arms outstretched into semaphore as letters are projected onto the black cloth. The alphabet of inadequate language.
When we reach z, he steps out, all smiles and welcoming.
He's going to be using the record players. He's not an expert on them. But he wants to be. We all giggle at that.
And so it begins. Marshman setting up records as he tells us the story of a seventeen-year-old boy, on a train in 1953, who propositions an undercover policeman, and then goes on to name other homosexual men. He's not ashamed. He's almost blase about the situation.
"You may find these things morally wrong," he tells them. "But I do not."
Going off to one side, Marshman sets up a slide projector, to show us the translations of a secret language, Polari, spoken by gay men.
The young man sitting next to me reaches forward and pulls a pale pink notebook from his bag. Flicking through it to the next free page, he writes something down. "Clobber," he writes in black felt tip. "Clothes," in Polari.
Marshman sets up more records, dances around, even gives us a couple of headstands. All the while delving into what it meant to be a gay man before the Sexual Offenses Act of 1967.
By the end, the young man next to me is crying.
"Don't say I never take you to anything," he says to his date as the lights go up. His cheeks are bright red with tears. He wipes them with the back of his hands and gives us a great big sniff.
I can't blame him. That was traumatic.
But Marshman isn't done yet. He has three things to tell us. The first is that there is a trip to Wandsworth archives if anyone wants to join. The second is that he's selling pewter mugs. He holds one up for us to see and smiles sheepishly. Twenty quid and they say "you may find these things morally wrong, but I do not," on them. They're rather tasty. I wouldn't mind getting my hands on one of those.
"What's the other thing?" says Marshman, placing down the cup. "I know I had three things to tell you... ah yes!" We're to tell our friends. And if they could come on Saturday that would be great, because it's rather quiet.
That would be a shame. Marshman is one hell of an engaging performer.
Now, who can I convince to buy me a pewter mug for Christmas?
