"We’re riding along on the crest of a wave...”
Now who do you think of when you see those words? Correct. Ralph Reader, the extraordinary theatrical producer who spent a lifetime presenting the immensely successful “Gang Shows” in theatres all over Britain. His casts of 100 or more were made up entirely of Boy Scouts, Girl Guides, Cubs and Brownies - with just a few Scoutmasters and Guide Mistresses to round things off -- and Ralph’s genius was that he could weld such a mixed bunch of amateurs into a rip-roaring two-hour show that had audiences repeatedly demanding curtain calls. Of course, the fact that the audiences were made up entirely of proud Mums and Dads and aunties and uncles and grannies may have had something to do with the wild success of the productions, but never mind. It was a toss-up who had the greatest time - the audience or the cast.
My Friend Harry met Ralph only once. Ralph was putting on one of his shows at the Theatre Royal, Newcastle, and Harry called at the stage door to ask if he would care to have lunch across the road at the Turk’s Head Hotel. Ralph, a true pro, asked: “What’s in it for you, then?" Harry said all would be revealed over food and drink and, maybe, a cigar. Ralph, as we said, a true pro, led the way briskly across Grey Street to the elegant hotel - now, alas, a mere memory, having been swept out of existence by the ‘developers’.
What Harry wanted was Ralph’s presence at the ballroom dancing championship which he was staging in the nearby Oxford Galleries. “Collect you after your performance," he said, “run you round to the Oxford, introduce you on stage, ask you to present the awards, thank you, stand you a couple of drinks in the VIP lounge, and when you wish to leave, we’ll run you back to your hotel. Bags of advance publicity in the morning and evening papers, special posters with your portrait on them outside the Oxford and in the foyer.”
“Fee?” asked the true pro.
“Fee?" echoed My Friend Harry, saddened that the sordid matter of money had been raised. “All proceeds from the ballroom championship will be for the Chronicle Sunshine Fund, the charity I run for poor children in the North East."
“Very commendable," replied Ralph, drawing on his cigar. “Shall we say 20 guineas, then? I normally ask for 50, but as ...”
“Twenty guineas it is, then," agreed Harry.
Ralph smiled. “Cash," he said.
Harry smiled. “Cash it shall be.”
And having settled that amicably - very amicably, for Harry. He’d expected to pay 75 guineas-they both settled down to a pleasant chat over the port and liqueurs. It was in the course of that agreeable interlude that Harry asked if he might have half-a-dozen of Ralph’s autographed photographs to be auctioned at the ballroom championship to swell the proceeds for the charity.
“See Jim Manners," said Ralph. “He’s the company's promotions man. You’ll find him at the Station Hotel. He’s booked a room there as his office”.
So, later that day, Harry rang the Station Hotel, contacted Jim and walked across from the newspaper office to collect the photographs. He entered the room just as Jim was signing the last of the six pictures. He wrote carefully: “With my very best regards, Ralph Reader."
Noting Harry’s raised eyebrows, he shrugged. “Well, Ralph’s s busy man-and who’s to know?”
They went down to the hotel bar for a couple of early-evening snifters and it was then that Jim told him of the dreadful events that had followed one particular garden party which had been held in the Midlands to raise funds for the Scout movement thereabouts. It was, said Jim, a beautiful sunny day and the party was a terrific success. All manner of stalls were doing a roaring trade and he and Ralph had wandered amiably around the hoopla stalls and roll-a-penny stalls and bean-bag stalls trying their luck and refusing to accept the prizes when their luck was in. They were, of course, followed around by crowds of people delighted to see such a famous personality as Ralph Reader right there in their midst.
Jim continued: “Ralph whispered in my ear during the rounds. 'That bloody awful looking woman over there', he said, with a nod of the head. 'She won’t take her eyes off me. Been trailing along right from the start.’ Sure enough, a very plain woman indeed had her eyes riveted on Ralph. Hardly blinked. And she really was an ill-favoured person, poor woman. We couldn’t shake her off and it eventually got that she was crowding right up close, still staring adoringly at Ralph. “I can’t take any more of this,” he muttered, so we made our apologies and skedaddled."
Two days later, Ralph was opening his mail when he came across a hand-written letter. ‘Dear Mr Reader,’ it ran. ‘Please forgive me for writing to you, for I know how busy you must be, but I had the privilege of seeing you at the Scouts’ garden party on Saturday. I think you are doing wonderful work for young people and are bringing pleasure to thousands of people. Believe me, I am one of your most devoted fans and nothing would give me more pleasure than to have a photograph of you to pin up on my wall. Do you think you could spare one for a humble Guide Mistress?’
The letter was signed Gladys Morton. And under the signature was added the one word:
Horseface.
Ralph read the letter amid a growing feeling of guilt and humility. There was this wonderful woman doing what she could to help the Scout movement and her Girl Guides, only too conscious of her plain looks, but making fun of them. She probably called herself Horseface with a chuckle that endeared her to all who knew her and were devotedly aware of her many qualities. He drew a sheet of headed notepaper from his brief case, sat down at the little table in his hotel room, and began to write:
‘Dear Gladys Morton," he began-and then screwed up the sheet and threw it into the waste bin. He started again.
‘Dear Horseface,’ he wrote. ‘I well remember you at the garden party and am only too delighted to send an autographed photograph in response to your request.’
“That night," said Jim Manners, “after Ralph had posted off his note and the picture, I saw him at the theatre before curtain-up. He was full of the letter he had received from the plain woman who had dogged him at the garden party. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I wrote Horseface under her signature so that you’d know who she was ...”
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