Comin Home

Comin’ Home!’

"Wait a minute, wait a minute I tell ya – you ain’t heard nuthin’ yet!"

"I’ve bin away from you a long time! - I never thought I’d miss ya so, some how I feel, your love is real – near you I wanna be!"

" The folks up north will see me no more, when I get to that Swanee shore! I love the ol’ folks at home!"

"Hey Deke, do you think this is really going ta work?" asks the portly figure behind the enormous brown Victorian writing desk. Tamarine Grange has somehow managed to negotiate his ample frame into the capacious high-backed chair behind the desk, but he now rather resembles a squashed mushroom, in the dim light of the back-stage anteroom.

The tall, lean man sitting opposite him pushes forward, and studies the typescript that lies curled upon the cluttered desk. Despite the acrid smoke that drifts up from the heavily chewed cigar perched upon the silver ashtray, the air is still breathable, despite ignorance of the ‘Clean Air Act’. Derek Flynapper begins to turn the pages slowly. "It’s well written, the scores are great, and the old home town charm is very current, very saleable. If we don’t push this now we’ll probably never get another chance. When times are hard, and the world’s on its knees, there’s only voice that can do the business. It’s been done before, and the time is right for this type of show again."

The lean man pauses, looks into the pink-fleshed face impresario opposite, and presses home the urgency of his bid. "He was there in the depression of the Twenties, and led show business from the front. That’s what the business is crying out for now - it’s his time again. Its time he came back ,back home to the business."

The man in the overly-tight Hawaiian shirt flicks the side of his fleshy hand at the typescript, and reaches for the smouldering cigar again. He pulls heavily upon its contents and blows a thin column of smoke high into the greying air.

"I’m not sure…seems very old hat to me, but what the hell? We have a one legged juggler and two dancing dogs heading the show at the Roxi in Lynemouth this season, and one of them has already bitten the stage manager twice! Lord knows how I’m gonna square that with the indemnity." Tamarine Grange leans back, and turns his bulging eyes to the long cracks in the ceiling, as if considering some great state secret, and for all purposes, could take a passable roll in the production of ‘Oh! Mister Churchill!’ playing to full houses at The Grande, a few miles further along the coast.

"I’ll tell what I’ll do Deke, if your holdin’ the foldin’ and can get this off the ground, I’ll back you for a run at the Pavilion. It’s local, and it’ll be a good kick-off for your boy - what’s his name?"

"Steve – Steve Saffron. He’s keen as mustard, but more importantly he has the voice," announces Derek eagerly. He pushes his lean frame upright and waves a hand at the open door, "Listen to that. It’s no put on - he can push that tone all day. The guy’s a natural I tell you."

"Ok, sure, there’s something in what you say, even I can tell, and I’m tone deaf. Sounds pretty good on the monitor too, but that kind of singin’ went out with button shoes. To lay it on the line - will it put bums on seats? More to the point, what’s it goin’ ta cost me to front-up?"

The checked jacket hanging loosely on the lean frame of Derek Flynapper becomes animated, and the arms begin to flail at the rotund figure behind the desk. "Take my word for it Tam, Steve has it, and I mean to push ‘…Comin’ Home!’ all the way. I know this type of show has been done before, and sure, most have crashed, but they always go for a name or a false voice, and they just don’t work – but Steve Saffron has the feel of the thing. As you can see, they are all great numbers, and its basically a one man show sitting on some up-tempo props, laser lighting, and a great sound system. We can contract out most of the…"

"Hey! Hold on there Deke," interjects Tamarine Grange, "a kick-off show is one thing, but what we need is a tour to get a decent return for our investors. Gonna have to scale this up, if it works. I don’t wanna reach out too far into the risk business with this." Tamarine leans forward, picks up the typescript, and thumbs the pages casually. "I’ll tell you what I’ll do, if the kick-off show works and your boy can perform, I’ll arrange a tour, and if that breaks even, I’ll take it further."