The day Alec Guinness shot the audience

A recent photograph of the interior of the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, in The Oldie, reminded me of my days as an 18-yearold ‘check-taker’ at London’s most beautiful theatre.

Major Peake, cavalryman’s corset pinching his waist and rosewater dampening his curls, looked at me hard. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘You’re tall – so the suit should fit. Start tonight.’

And so, in the autumn of 1961, after grammar school, I became a check-taker at the Theatre Royal.

My job was to stand at the entrance to the Upper Circle, tear tickets in half and direct people to their seats. ‘Through the bar and up the stairs the other side’ was my mantra.

I took orders for interval drinks. In the Dress Circle, at matinées, ladies ordered the Tea Tray: a pot for two, Rich Tea biscuits and two slices of cake, fruit or Madeira – five shillings.

But I didn’t get ‘the Dress’ unless another check-taker went missing. Major Peake preferred to recruit from the Brigade of Guards. The Scots Guards were at Wellington Barracks. Caledonian voices enlivened the corridor where we struggled into our dinner jackets.

People still wore evening dress in the stalls and the Dress Circle – hence the name. Douglas Bader rocked down the row on his tin legs to find his seat. Vivien Leigh paced the promenade at the back of the Dress during the second act and never returned to hers.

Ross by Terence Rattigan was in the second year of its run. It had opened with Alec Guinness as Aircraftman Ross, the identity T E Lawrence assumed in order to disappear after his Arabian adventures.

Guinness had some business with a revolver in the first act. If anyone arrived late or rustled their chocolate box, he pointed the weapon at them until they sat down or shut up.

Michael Bryant took over from Guinness.

The curtain line closing the first half is ‘Ross, Ross, how did I become you?’

At first, Bryant delivered the line as a howl of rage. Then he decided to whisper it.

Check-takers were paid ten shillings and sixpence per performance – half a guinea – and a whole guinea if they also did the matinée on Wednesday and Saturday: £4 4s 0d a week.

During the day, I worked at Foyles. It was a sweatshop presided over by Christina Foyle, who lived in the penthouse with her poodle. As they swept out every morning, the dog would stop in New Novels to defecate.

After three months, I found a job as a trainee reporter on a weekly. By then, I knew every line of Ross, except the opening scene. I had never seen it because I was always tearing latecomers’ tickets.