For those of you who don’t know (and there are quite a few, I am sure) the Boy Scout Gang Show, a Music-Hall/Vaudeville-style show produced by local Scout Troops more often than not as a fundraiser, is played all over the world, and there is, it is said, no evening in the year when a Gang Show is not produced somewhere in the world! When one watches a Gang Show, it appears to be a wonderful, happy and very polished performance. But one wonders if behind the scenes everything is actually going as well as it is portrayed on the stage. In fact, it could very well be so poor that it might even overflow onto the stage…!

"...And the Worlllllld...Iiiiis.... Ourrrrrs!!!!!"
The well-known words of Ralph Reader’s ‘Crest of a Wave’ happily roared out from eighty scouting throats filled the huge auditorium of Griffith City’s Albion-St John Theatre, and the applause and cheers and cries of "Encore!" were deafening.
The Producer and Director, Graham Prendergast, came out in front of the huge audience, and with a very wide smile bowed. When the director Graham Thompson, well respected by all, had died quite suddenly in his sleep two weeks before the show was due to run, Prendergast had stepped in and taken over directorship of the show, without even warning anyone. All the work for the show had been done, and it appeared as if Prendergast had done a wonderful job.
Prendergast stepped up to the microphone which slid up from the floor, and waved the crowd to silence.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your appreciation of the show.
"However, I feel it is a very good time now for us to acknowledge the passing of a great man.
"Mr Graham Thompson, who most of you will recall, was the director of this show for many years, passed away only a week before this show was due to open."
Prendergast looked modest, "I was able to step into his shoes and continue on, to produce the wonderful show you have just seen. I hope to be allowed to return next year to produce just as great a show. We will all be back again, and we wish you all a very pleasant ride home. Goodnight all!" And he waved.
The applause broke out again, and Prendergast waved again, before indicating the orchestra.
Francis Cuthbertson, the musical director raised his baton with a smile, and the whole cast launched into a repeat of ‘Crest of a Wave’. The crowd clapped along, enjoying the well-known tune.

Graham Maxwell Prendergast esq., unmarried, five foot nothing and sixty-kilos-soaking-wet, was extremely confident of his talent. He was quite sure he could produce a show as good as, if not better than, Graham Thompson’s. He had longed for recognition for almost all his life, quite often making a fool of himself and a nuisance to others in earlier days, and now that the opportunity presented itself, almost out of the blue, he looked forward to it no end. But if the truth be known, the little man had an ego bigger than all outdoors. As far as he was concerned, this Gang Show was the greatest show of all, and he was the greatest director in the world - only a step away from Hollywood and Broadway!
About three months after the closure of that show, he started making plans in preparation for the following year.
He used several ideas he had come up with, including a new sketch he himself had written, and a new song.
The rest of the show he cobbled together from old Gang Show tapes and films.
As the show’s preparation progressed there came over the cast and crew a sense of foreboding. It was not going well at all.
Finally Opening Day arrived.
Francis Cuthbertson tried to put a good face on it. He desperately smiled heartily to his little orchestra, prior to them going out, "OK folks," he said, "Here’s where we can prove that we are a good orchestra!"
He was met with a few dismal nods. Few had any hope for the show.
And to everyone’s dismay it turned out to be a dreadful failure. The sketch Prendergast had written could not have been worse; as the joke (there was only one!) was so old that it barely raised a chuckle, and the rest of it consisted of two boys talking to each other in front of black tabs, without any action at all! His song faired no better, for it didn’t scan, and the tune was very unremarkable, in spite of Cuthbertson’s attempts at an upbeat orchestration. The three girls who sang it could never get it right. The main reason was that, although he would never admit it, Prendergast himself was not too sure how it should sound!
And he could never make up his mind about the rest of the show. He was sure he could do better, so kept on changing things around, sometimes even dropping whole sketches or songs, even on the performance nights, ‘just to see if it would work better‘!
Nobody knew what changes he would make, which was very unsettling for the whole cast and crew.
The first five nights in the Albion-St. John were full, riding on the previous successes, but the audiences quickly became more and more disenchanted. Word-of-mouth is the best advertisement, but it is also the worst. The second week was very poorly attended, and got worse as the week progressed and word spread. The box office received a record number of cancellations, quite a number not even bothering to reclaim their investment, and the show finished to an audience of sixty-two, lost in the vastness of the huge auditorium, twelve of which left before the show ended.
After the final show was over, the secretary of the Albion-St John, Richard Spencer called for Prendergast and when the little man entered his office, he indicated a chair.
"Mr Prendergast," began Spencer, seeming to pick his words carefully, "We - that is, the committee - have received a record number of reports about this show…"
"Oh, that’s nice!"
Spencer paused, shocked. In spite of everything he had seen, Prendergast still believed in the show! The man went on, doggedly, "It has been unanimously voted that…um… your contract not be renewed for next year."
There was a loaded pause as Prendergast’s mouth dropped, "Bbb…but why…?" he began.
"Really now Mr Prendergast," interrupted the man, patronisingly, "I think you must realise just why. The show has made nothing but a loss." Spencer leaned forward right into Prendergast’s face and went on brutally, "Matter of fact, I think it is fair to say that this show was a total disgrace to Scouting in general and to the memory of Ralph Reader in particular. I will leave it to you to find yourself another auditorium. South State Gang Show is no longer welcome at the Albion-St John. To be honest," he went on, musingly, "I doubt if you will find a conventional auditorium anywhere in Griffith City, but that is for you to find out. We have nothing more to talk about, Mr Prendergast. Thank you, close the door on your way out, good bye." He finished pointedly, and very deliberately turned away to other work.
And totally shocked, Prendergast walked out, his mind stunned.
Then anger replaced shock, and he suddenly snarled. He was sure it was not his fault. And therefore it was someone else’s. And would find out who was responsible.
And he found a scapegoat!
That evening the world-class choreographer Michelle Howard who had been doing the show for almost ten years just for the sheer joy of it, had come home and had a good cry on her husband’s shoulder.
Terry Howard was very sympathetic as he loved his wife dearly and supported her choreographic endeavours to the best of his ability. "OK sweetheart," he said to the sobbing woman, "You did your best for the show, everyone knows that. It’s that Prendergast. You can think seriously about leaving the show and leaving him to it. He doesn’t deserve you!"
Michelle nodded and dried her eyes, sitting down to her tea.
Then at about six-thirty the telephone rang. She picked it up.
"Hello Mrs Howard. This is Graham Prendergast speaking." The man’s voice was dry and brittle.
For a split second, Michelle almost slammed the phone down. But then she decided to put as good a face on it as possible, even though she was talking to the biggest idiot in the world, as far as she was concerned. "Ah, hello Grah…."
"Spare the pleasantries. I have rung you to tell you that you will not be required for next year’s show. Your disgraceful attempts at choreography have led to the show being cancelled from the Albion-St John!"
For a moment Michelle stood there, the phone in her hand, stunned. Cancelled?! Her fault!? Finally she shook her head, "But Mr Prendergast, I feel…"
"What you feel is not important Mrs Howard," came the man’s voice, sneering slightly, "You’re sacked. I shall be passing the word along and you will never have a job ever again in any production. So goodbye."
And the phone slammed down in her ear.
Michelle stood there, in utter shock.
It took her all her time to put her jaw back into place.
"Terry!" The cry was almost a croak.
"Whassamatta?!" Terry heard the tone of his wife’s voice and hurried in to see her look of horror.
"That was… Prendergast! Terry, he… he sacked me!"
There was a thick silence.
"He…what?"
"He sacked me! Terry, he blames me for the show’s failure! Terry…I…I…" The woman’s face crumpled into utter dismay.
Howard ground his teeth. He felt like going around there and smashing Prendergast’s face in, but being a gentleman he decided not to, out of respect for his wife, Ralph Reader and his own reputation. "Very well, you will never, with my blessing, have anything to do with Prendergast or Scouting or Gang Show ever again!"
"Don’t worry!" There was a look of ferocious anger on her face as she answered, "I would never touch the man with a thousand-foot pole!"
It took her almost three weeks to get over it. And about four months later, when she happened to meet Francis Cuthbertson on the street, he said, "Hello Michelle! Coming to the planning meeting?"
"N…No," she replied, hesitantly, but with increasing confidence, "I am afraid I was sacked. I’ll never be coming to any Gang Show ever again."
And she left the other standing there on the pavement, jaw dropped in shock, and stalked away, her nose in the air. She was not going to give Prendergast the pleasure of her plea.
The following year, after considerable negotiation from Prendergast, South State Gang Show was staged in the Berkley School Memorial Hall/Gymnasium (which was vastly inferior to the Albion-St John; because, like all school halls, it had no sound-damping, atrocious acoustics and echoed badly!)
It was very poorly attended.
The day after the last show a phone call came for Prendergast.
"Hello?"
"Mr Prendergast?"
"Yes?"
"Mr Prendergast, it is Graham Greene of the Berkley School Council."
"Ah, hello Mr Greene. I would like to discuss with you the arrangements for next year. I have quite a few ideas…"
"Mr Prendergast!" Greene’s tone stopped Prendergast in mid sentence. There was a loaded pause, then Greene went on, his speech slow, and his tone cutting, "I have been asked by the rest of the council to inform you that the Berkley School Memorial Hall is no longer available to the South State Gang Show."
There was the obvious pause.
"Wh…why?" asked Prendergast, totally at a loss.
"You want the truth? Well it is simply that even though two thousand seats were put out, only an average of five percent of them were used every night. The show last night was witnessed by no lesser person than our Headmaster, and he said afterwards that he had never seen such a bad show. Not even the worst play put on by our pupils could compare. (And that is saying something, believe me!) So thank you for your patronage, and I hope you find another auditorium - somewhere else. Goodbye."
And the phone clicked in Prendergast’s ear.
The third show was produced in a smaller school hall and was even more of a failure.
And Prendergast managed to find another scapegoat. It was Craig Laurence. Craig was nineteen, and had been a Rover for almost two years, and had been loyal to Scouting since he had been a Cub Scout at the age of seven. He had been a member of the show for almost eight years. He had originally been in the orchestra playing a synthesizer (and playing it well!) for three years already when Graham Thompson had died. Laurence had taken the big step of getting on stage for the following year. He had begun arranging music for the orchestra at the request of Cuthbertson, and was doing so well that Prendergast felt threatened.
The little man schemed, and one evening he took one of the girls, twelve-year-old Rachel Parsons aside.
"Rachel, I have a job for you."
"Yes Mr Prendergast?"
Prendergast’s scouting nickname was Ricky, but nobody ever called him that, it was either Mr Prendergast, or, if they were feeling friendly, Graham.
"There is one man in the cast who is a threat to the whole show, Craig Lawrence. Now I need some help so we can get rid of him permanently."
The little girl’s brow furrowed and she nodded hesitantly, wondering what part she would play in this.
"So what I want you to do is to tell us how badly he has been treating you."
"But…but that’s not tr…"
"Just a minute, I want you to tell me what you and he were talking about in the back room last performance?"
"We were talking about my songs and how I could get them right."
"Yeah, I think he was doing something to you, and you are just trying to cover up for him!"
"N…no, not at all…"
"Yes you are! I believe you have been molested by him!"
The girl’s jaw dropped. Lawrence was one of the kindest, nicest, most gentle men in the show.
Then Prendergast looked almost savagely at her, "I should point out, that unless you do exactly as I say, I will have no choice but to expel you from the show. So make up your mind."
Rachel found herself in a terrible quandary.
Finally after a pause, she said, "Can I think about it?"
"No, I want an answer right now, or it will be the worst for you!"
The little girl began to cry, "I don’t want to do that to him! He’s nice!"
Prendergast sneered. He had no time for emotions. "Yes, I’ll bet. Nice in the nastiest possible way! He’s a menace, and you will get rid of him for me, or…!"
He left the unspoken threat hanging.
"Wh…what do you want me to say?"
"Just as I said. At the next rehearsal, you can come out and say exactly what I tell you to. Then we will be rid of him immediately!"
"B..,"
"Remember, if you so much as speak out of turn, you’ll be out of the show forever! And not a word to your parents about this either, or else!"
Swallowing hard, the little girl nodded.
The following rehearsal, Rachel was looking very unhappy, and was very quiet.
She had kept clear of Laurence, but every now and then she caught sight of him, and her heart thudded as she remembered what Prendergast had ordered her to say at the closing ceremony.
Finally the rehearsal ended, and the various patrols of the show came together for taps and dismissal in the usual way.
They were standing in their lines alongside the dance floor when Rachel stepped forward. "Please, I want to make a complaint!"
Her tiny voice rang out in the quite of the room, and everyone stopped talking.
Looking the picture of surprise, Prendergast said, "Yes, Rachel?"
The little girl’s voice went into a monotone, "I want to complain about Craig Laurence."
Craig’s eyebrows went up.
"Oh?" said Prendergast, "And what has he done?"
"He…" she paused, and Prendergast gave an almost imperceptible nod. "He’s done wicked things to me!"
Her voice was monotone, and sounded like she was reading lines.
There was the silence of shock.
"Excuse me," said Laurence, "What to you mean…"
He didn’t get any further.
"I SEE!" said Prendergast, a thundercloud on his brow, and he turned to Laurence, his face the picture of righteous anger, "Laurence! I am a very easy-going man, and can accept many wrongdoings, but molestation of a minor, I will NOT accept!" The man looked positively pious, "I should go to the police, but I am lenient, and will let it go. Now get out, pervert! Get out, and never darken this Gang Show again!"
There was a horrific silence in the hall. Nobody had ever thought that Laurence could ever be accused of such a horrendous crime!
"But…" Laurence was gob smacked and began to protest, "I never did any such thing…"
"I see, and you are throwing a little girl’s words in her face, are you? That’s it, Laurence. You will never be wanted in a show that I produce ever again!"
"B…"
"Get out!"
"I…"
"I SAID GET OUT! MUST I REPEAT MYSELF!?"
And shaking his head in dismay and anger, Laurence walked to the door.
Behind him, Rachel Parsons stood looking after him. And there were tears in her eyes.
"Thank you Rachel," said Prendergast, "That will be all."
"…!"
"I said,…that will be all!"
And the little girl walked back to her place. Her mind was in a turmoil. What more could she have done? She did not know.
Her conscience was destined to suffer for quite a while…

The young man had stayed away for two years, but then one afternoon received a heartfelt invitation from Cuthbertson:

Dear Craig,
I know, as do most of the other adults that you were done rotten by Prendergast, but the fact is that we need you. Your musical talent made the show; such as it was, and it is going downhill so badly that nothing short of your input can possibly save it. Please, please find it in your heart to forgive, and come and join us again.
Your pal,
Francis Cuthbertson.

It took much soul-searching, but finally Craig came to the conclusion that he should indeed try. After all, he and Cuthbertson had always been good friends.
Two Sundays later, with grave misgivings, he took a deep breath and walked through the door to attend the first audition.
As he entered, it was to see Francis sitting at the piano on the other side of the hall.
"Craig!" whispered Francis, catching sight of him, "Oh thank god!" And he stood up from the piano and walked over to his friend.
"Hi Francis," said Craig, a little hesitantly, "I only came because you asked. If Prendergast had done so I would have sent the letter back to him with something unmentionable in the envelope!"
Francis gave a shocked grin, and tried hard not to laugh. "OK, now look, I have had words with Prendergast, so let’s get this audition over and done with, then we’ll see what happens."
The audition of course went without a hitch. Craig sang the emotion-filled song ‘The Impossible Dream’ (which, Francis found himself thinking with a wry grin, was very apt for Prendergast!).
Just as Craig’s fine tenor was singing the last line, Prendergast came in from one of the outer rooms.
"Ah," he said sneeringly, "I thought I recognised the voice." He came over close to Craig, and his voice sank to a threatening whisper, "Now listen, you pervert, I feel you should know that if I see you hanging around with the kids, or even looking at them, you’ll be out of the show quick-smart! You keep your filthy hands to yourself!" His voice became sanctimonious, "It’s only through the goodness of my heart and Mr Cuthbertson’s sincere requests that I am allowing you to rejoin the show. Do I make myself clear?!"
Seething with anger, Craig desperately plastered a neutral expression on his face, and not trusting himself to speak, merely nodded.
"Good." Prendergast bared his teeth, "I’m so glad we understand each other. I was thinking of giving you a solo or two, but I have changed my mind. You will be in the chorus. Any complaints?" And he looked ferociously at the boy.
Craig shook his head.
And from that moment on, Laurence was never given another solo, nor even a part in any sketch. He found himself forever in the chorus, in the back row and right out of the limelight.
But perhaps it was for the best, for unknown to Prendergast he was once again arranging music for Cuthbertson, and together they managed to support each other.
And so time passed…

It was three years later.
The shows were getting worse, and Prendergast was blaming everyone and everything - but himself.
After being shunted around the city, the South State Gang Show finally had to move here, to the tiny 200-seat Unicorn, which was actually a proper theatre, but it was tucked away in the suburbs, had next to no parking facilities, and usually was only used for minor performances and poetry readings. Cuthbertson had had to cut his orchestra almost by two-thirds to get them into the tiny pit. And even now, the show was turning out to be a dismal failure, not only in staging but also in the box office. It was running at a loss amounting to something like twelve thousand dollars.
This particular show featured a sketch that Prendergast had written. It was a science-fiction story; ‘Crisis on Ganymede!’, and several very poor, unrelated jokes were incorporated into it, which Prendergast had obviously thought funny. But it looked like he had got his ideas from a third-rate 1940’s pulp magazine, and combined with Prendergast’s inability to write reasonably coherently produced a script that was, not to put too fine a point on it - dreadful! The grammar was awful, and the whole read very stiltedly.
The sketch included a ’rap’, which was a dreadful thing, horribly childish, and extremely embarrassing.
To try to make up for it, Cuthbertson quickly put together a version of the old faithful 'Robin Hood', together with a couple of bouncy songs. He presented it to Prendergast, who looked at it critically. Then the weasel said, as if he was doing the man a huge favour, "Wellll; all right. It's not all that good, but you have obviously worked hard on it. so we'll include it."
Cuthbertson almost smacked the little man in the face. But at least there would be one part which would be reasonably good.
Then to everyone's dismay, Prendergast deliberately sacked Penelope Gregory the choreographer and the singing instructor Jennifer Raymond in the most sordid way! It had been only two weeks into rehearsals, and right at the beginning of the practice, and right out of the blue, Prendergast had called them to the front of the group.
"Miss Gregory, Mrs Raymond…" he paused, and everyone looked on, wondering just what was happening.
Then the bombshell fell.
"Neither of you will be required for this show from now on. Miss Gregory, your choreography leaves a lot to be desired, and you, Mrs Raymond,…" Prendergast paused and sneered, "You fat, ugly pig! You couldn’t sing to save your life! I hope you can both find jobs elsewhere, for you will never get another one here! Good-BYE!" he snarled, pointing at the door.
The cast’s jaws dropped. Jennifer was overweight certainly, but she was a very nice woman, liked by everyone, and did not deserve that!
Penny gaped! This just could not be happening! "Now just a minute…" she began.
"I SAID GOODBYE! Must I repeat myself!?"
The two women, both in tears and faces flaming with rage and embarrassment, headed for the door.
Gregory turned as she reached the door. "Damn you, Prendergast, I hope you rot in hell!" she whispered, tears falling.
Then she turned and followed Raymond.
The two were never seen again.
Then to compound the problem, Prendergast had done the job himself.
… and had made a complete hash of it! The man had no idea of rhythm or movement!
It was an utter catastrophe.
The fourth day of the season dawned, and the afternoon matinee was due to start in two hours time.
Prendergast was sitting in his dressing room, which resembled a corporate director’s office, as it had a huge desk in the middle, one that Prendergast had ordered personally, because, he thought, it suited his personality.
Cuthbertson entered, having been summoned.
"Ah yes," said Prendergast grandly, "Mr Francis Cuthbertson. I want a word with you!"
"What gives, Graham?"
"It’s Mr Prendergast to you!" said the little man with a sneer.
Francis gaped. Oh no! Now what was going to happen?
"I have produced many shows," went on Prendergast grandly, sounding as if he actually knew what he was talking about, "and I have to say that this is the worst of the lot. And - it is your disgraceful musical production which has ruined this show."
There was a pause as Cuthbertson’s jaw dropped.
A figure was passing the door, but paused as it heard Prendergast’s chilling statement. It stopped and listened…
Then...
"You will not be required for any more shows after this one finishes."
"B…but…"
"That’s it. We have nothing more to talk about. Goodbye!" And Prendergast turned his attention to a small pile of paperwork, dismissing Cuthbertson as if he were no more than a cockroach.
The figure outside shook its head in dismay and disappeared.
Grinding his teeth, Cuthbertson walked slowly out the door. The musical director had actually discussed the situation with his wife only that morning, and had made up his mind to resign as of the end of that show anyway. He was utterly fed to the back teeth with the mess that Prendergast had created. It was a total and utter failure! But this put a whole new slant on the situation! He was not going without a fight!
Damn Prendergast and everything he stood for!
And then, only two hours later…
To say that the matinee had been miserable would be to praise it, and there was a smattering of applause accompanied by several embarrassed coughs from the little audience. Twenty-three people had already left before the show ended.
In the orchestra pit, Cuthbertson, close to tears, strongly resisted the temptation to break his baton across his knee in anger and frustration, and carefully laid it down before burying his head in his hands in despair! His little orchestra looked on in sympathy. They had tried hard. Man, had they ever tried! But, good as they were, nobody could possibly fight against a man who seemed intent on destroying everything that Gang Show had stood for.
And the show itself…!
The singing and choreography were badly unrehearsed and the acting embarrassingly poor, simply because not enough time or practice had been allotted to them. Many of the boys and girls in the show had missed or forgotten their lines, and at least three kids had almost come to tears on the stage. There were at least fifteen huge pauses; one almost a minute long, as crewmen behind the scenes desperately got their act together.
Cuthbertson remembered Predergast's sketch 'Crisis on Ganymede'. The whole thing was so embarrassing that many of the children who took part went out to the toilets after the production and hid their faces in shame.
Cuthbertson’s immediate reaction as he had read it first was, ‘This is not going to work!’
And it hadn’t.
And Cuthbertson had to stand there and watch it every show.
He cringed every time, as did every other cast member!
And then as if things weren’t bad enough, Prendergast made a recording of the rap, obviously very proud of it, and had it made into a CD, along with a couple of other songs that he had written.
He had a hundred and fifty copies made to be sold during the show. It must have cost him a packet.
And not one was sold.
It would have been laughable if it had not been so pathetic. Every one of the audience felt they had been conned out of the fifteen dollars they had paid for their seats. Even if it ran to packed houses the rest of the shows, it would still be a staggering loss. And every member of the cast and crew looked relieved that the week’s performances were almost over.
But there was still the evening show, and the second week of shows to go! And Cuthbertson knew that under it all, nobody wanted to do them! A Gang Show was supposed to be a joyous occasion, with cast, crew and audience enjoying it equally. But this was utterly joyless as well as being horribly embarrassing.
But he also knew that unless something miraculous happened, the show would go on, and the director would once again come out smelling of roses, and he, Cuthbertson, would be down the road without a show and his reputation in ruins.
And then, as if to make matters worse, to Cuthbertson’s disgust, Prendergast came out in front of the miserable audience, which were scattered over less than a quarter of the two hundred seats in the theatre.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, spreading his arms wide, his greasy smile plastered over his face, "I am so very happy that you came to my show, and I would like to invite you back to the show next year, a show I might add will be even better than the tremendous show you have just seen! Of course if it hadn’t been for all the work that I personally put in over the last few months, it would not have been nearly as wonderful and tremendous as it has. Every one of the cast has enjoyed it greatly, and it’s all thanks to my hard work...."
Cuthbertson shook his head in utter dismay. In spite of everything, and in the face of all evidence, Prendergast still thought this was the greatest show on earth! And the little swine had the audacity to sack him! Ye gods, it was Prendergast’s fault entirely!
Prendergast opened his mouth to continue his speech, no doubt praising his own prowess even more, when he fell silent and looked around in confusion as there was a sudden footstep behind him.
One of the cast members had stepped out from the lines of scouts behind Prendergast.
He turned and looked.
It was Craig Laurence.
The young man’s handsome eyes were narrowed and blazing in anger, and his jaw was squared so much that his bottom teeth were showing.
He stood there with his hands on his hips, glaring at Prendergast.
The air was electric.
Laurence glanced around at the scouts lined up behind him, and shook his head in dismay. They had worked hard, trying desperately to get the show right. But thanks to Prendergast they had been confused and despairing right through rehearsals and into the show proper. Ye gods, there had not even been any confirmed program until two nights before the show was due to open!
And then there was the horrible way that Prendergast had sacked Miss Gregory and Mrs Raymond!
What a mess!
Then Laurence looked down at the stunned face of Cuthbertson. The little orchestra their conductor had put together was a good one. He knew that, because he had heard them rehearse, and once or twice had heard them jamming. They sounded very good indeed. But because of Prendergast’s indecision, Cuthbertson had almost torn his hair out as he and Laurence desperately rewrote piece after piece; some, four times over! The orchestra was desperately rehearsing right up until the opening night.
Laurence took a deep breath. Dammit, the swine had accused him of molesting a girl of the cast! He had never done such a thing! And now, hearing Prendergast’s greasy, meaningless, self-congratulatory speech was the final straw as far as he was concerned. He knew this could very likely be the end of his career in theatre (such as it was) but then pure rage washed out any other emotion; Someone Had To Do Something!
He decided to go all out and to hell with any consequences!
"Er Craig," began Prendergast, puzzled, "What do you...?"
"That’s it Prendergast, this whole show stinks! Goodbye!" snarled Laurence loud enough to be heard at the back of the auditorium, trying to make it sound as final as possible, and turned on his heel to walk out.
It could have ended there, and Prendergast could have filled the gap left by Laurence, and the outcome of the story could very well have been totally different.
But for one thing.
Prendergast’s huge opinion of himself.
The little man snarled, "Laurence! How dare you walk out on me!" his voice became outraged, "I am your director, and I have not finished speaking to you!"
A figure which had been making its way down the aisle toward the stage in the shadows, had raised a foot to step onto the stage. But as Laurence’ words cut the air, the figure paused, and then unnoticed, took a seat in the second to front row, and watched…
Laurence stopped, and turned to an eerie silence that could be almost felt. He had wanted it to be very quick and very sudden, but it looked as if Prendergast wanted to draw it out.
All right, dammit, if that was what the weasel wanted, that was what the weasel got!
Everyone was still. They knew that something very big was about to happen.
Then before Prendergast could speak, Laurence beat him to it. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he began softly, but somehow his voice carried all over the theatre, "You have just witnessed a Gang Show the likes of which that if Ralph Reader had witnessed it, would make him turn in his grave!"
"Now - just - a - minute!" began Prendergast hotly.
"No, you wait a minute," interrupted Laurence, his jaw protruding and his teeth bared ferociously, and he turned and poked the little man hard in the chest, "Stand Still, Shaddap and Listen!"
"I most certainly will not!" retorted Prendergast, his hands on his hips, "Mr. Laurence, you are totally out of order! How dare you criticise my show! In public yet! Return to your place in the cast at once! We will be having words about this later!" and the little man’s voice turned evilly menacing, "Don’t forget the reason you were removed from the show in the first place!"
But the young man stood his ground, his anger giving him an inner strength he never knew he had. "Am I? Am I really out of order Mr. Prendergast? Just stand there and listen! You need to hear this!"
Several of the audience had begun to laugh, but then they froze it off, realizing that this was not part of the show. It was for real.
The cast behind the pair was statue-like, and on quite a number of the older men’s faces was a look of savage glee. At last someone had the guts to stand up to Prendergast!
In the second-to-front row of the cast, little Rachel Parsons stood watching, tears in her eyes as she saw the man she had been responsible for being chucked out, turn on the director. She was mature beyond her years, and her own conscience had been pricking her ever since Laurence had been kicked out. Oh damn, she thought, I wish I had the courage to do that! She remembered what Prendergast had said to her, and ground her teeth in rage. If ever she had the opportunity, ye gods, she would do to him, and more, what he had done to her! She stood there, tears starting to fall, and watched the confrontation develop…
In the back row of the cast, the large figures of the Rover twins Claude and David Simms had looked at each other, nodded, and then detached themselves unobtrusively from the line of scouts and disappeared into the wings...
Meanwhile the little man grabbed Laurence by the shoulders and spun him around, obviously in order to push him off the stage, "Yes, well, ha-ha-ha, that’s quite enough of that! Now the show will be on again next week, Ladies and Gentlemen." Then his voice turned menacing, "Laurence! How DARE you criticise and embarrass me in front of a whole evening’s audience! I’ll see you pay for this! I’ve got evidence …against…you…"
Two large figures in Rover uniform suddenly appeared on each side of the stage. The little skinny man’s voice faded as he hissed out his threat, becoming aware of the large figures in the shadows.
It was the Simms brothers.
They had never liked him, nor he them. It crossed his mind that they could be scapegoats for him if he needed anyone else.
He stood still and glared from side to side. Right, that was it. I’ll not put up with this any more, he thought furiously. Then he shouted, "Ring down the curtain!"
But the curtain operator who had been listening hard, stuck his head around the edge of the stage and with a mirthless grin and a one-finger salute shook his head.
Laurence shook himself, then gritting his teeth and forcing himself not to hit the little man, he threw all caution to the winds. He had burnt his boats, and anything that happened now would not change it. Tears stung his eyes as he went on very loudly, "Ladies and Gentlemen, Mister Prendergast has had the audacity to think that he could direct a Gang Show. Ha! The show you have just seen, I am sure you will all agree, shows that he cannot! I am not a director either, never have been, and never will be, but at least I am the first to admit it! The only part of this whole show worth anything was the Robin Hood Sketch? Yes?"
He looked at the audience expectantly.
They found themselves nodding. The Robin Hood Sketch had indeed been the only part of the show worth mentioning.
Laurence nodded mirthlessly, "Correct. It is obviously a very good sketch. And you know why? Because the Musical Director did it! Because Mr Cuthbertson in his wisdom managed to persuade Prendergast to put it into the show – goodness only knows how, but he did – and directed it personally. The rest of the show was a dead loss! Guess who...put the rest of the show together?"
Prendergast’s jaw had dropped. Then he made to speak.
Laurence turned around, "Shut - it - Prendergast," he shouted, his voice cutting, "You don’t have a leg to stand on, and everyone knows it, you pathetic - little - whimp!"
The skinny man’s eyes opened wild! He again made to speak, but Laurence shouted him down as he turned and looked at the pitiful audience, "Ladies and Gentlemen," he said loudly but sincerely, "I would like to apologise on behalf of the whole cast and crew." Behind him the cast found themselves nodding. Laurence breathed hard, adrenalin running fast, "It is not up to me, but if it was I would be the first to return your money to you, with sincerest apologies. Ye gods, I thought I had seen the worst of the shows. But this breaks all boundaries. Most of it was positively embarrassing to me and the cast, and I bet you all feel the same way!"
There was a massed nodding throughout the audience. It had been.
Laurence went on, his voice seething and tears in his eyes, "To hell with the rest of the shows; I wouldn’t want to be in them anyway!"
The audience and cast were amazed. Nobody had ever addressed anyone the way Laurence was taking their director apart! Several of the older cast members had the most evil smiles on their faces as the young man went all out, telling Prendergast exactly what he, and the rest of the cast, thought of him!
Laurence' took a deep breath, "Prendergast, you are the worst thing that ever happened to this show, curse you! Remember the director before you? Remember Graham Thompson? He knew what he was doing. In fact he was so good that they named Camp Thompson after him when he died! THAT was how highly they thought of him! But if he and Ralph Reader could see what you have put on under the title of ‘Gang Show’, they would both be sick! You wouldn’t make a back-stage sweeper! Ye gods Prendergast, you have no idea how to run a show! You think you know it all! But you don’t! You’re a downright disgrace to Gang Show, to Ralph Reader, to Scouting and to Lord Baden-Powell of Gillwell himself!!"
Laurence paused for breath, and Prendergast jumped in, a horribly wide smile on his face and waved his arms like a windmill, "Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, ha-ha, now that we have had our little bit of fun, ha-ha, and disposed of this pathetic individual, who will never be in Gang Show again, I assure you, ha-ha, this great show will be on again next year, and you are all invited..."
"Ha!" came David Simms voice from stage left, echoing with a bitter laugh as he stepped onto the stage and folding his arms, leaned up against the proscenium arch, "I wouldn’t want to!" His twin brother nodded in agreement.
"Listen Prendergast," Snarled Laurence, grabbing the man’s shoulder and spinning him around to face him, almost overbalancing him in the process, "I only decided to join back up with the show (after you had kicked me out through that trumped-up charge of molestation!)…" (the audience gave a collective gasp!) "…because I thought you might - just might - have picked up your ideas! But no, it’s got worse than anything I have ever seen or been in before!"
Prendergast was stunned into silence by the vehemenance of the young man’s attack, and stood there silent and amazed, his mouth open and his eyes staring in horror. Nobody had ever spoken to him like this! In front of a whole evening’s audience yet! Nobody would ever dare! He was the director of the show!
And then he realised that Rachel was still one of the cast! He looked over at her. She was standing there, her mouth open in wonder. And suddenly he was sure he could mount a full attack on Laurence. He only needed a word or two from the girl and Laurence would be not only chucked out of Gang Show and Scouting, but probably would be up before the judge the following day for molestation of a minor!
"Now hold on, you pervert," shouted Prendergast jumping at the chance, "I’ve got evidence against you! You are guilty of child molestation! The girl you molested is right here!" he stepped over and dragged her from the line-up.
Rachel staggered in his grip, and looked up at him in horror.
"Now," snarled Prendergast, secure in the thought that she was still cowed under his will, "Answer me! Did he or did he not, do nasty things to you?"
Laurence’ jaw dropped and he paled as he waited for the axe to fall.
But in a second Rachel made up her mind. Prendergast’s threat of expulsion from the Show still hung over her head, and up until now she had been too scared to retract. But now she had heard all that had gone on before, and realised that not only was Prendergast on the back foot, but here was a way for her to put things right. With only the slightest hesitation the girl threw caution to the winds. "No!" she shouted, to everyone’s surprise, "I only said what you told me to say!"
"What?" shouted Prendergast, stunned, "You’ll do as you are told! Say what I…er…that is…" He suddenly realised what he was saying and his voice stammered to a halt, his eyes darting from side to side.
But it was far too late.
There was a loaded pause as Prendergast put his foot squarely in his mouth, and suddenly everyone realised just how much Laurence had been framed!
In the thick silence that followed, the young man nodded, and suddenly he stood taller, a smile of satisfaction on his face. He had been exonerated, and in his mind, the sun started to shine for the first time for three years. He nodded to the little girl, "Thank you Rachel for telling the truth. You have saved me from a horrible fate!"
She desperately escaped the grasping hands of Prendergast, and flung herself into Laurence’ arms, "I’m sorry," she whimpered into his shoulder, tears flowing freely, "Honestly, I didn’t mean it! He threatened me with expulsion from the show if I didn’t! Please forgive me!"
Laurence hugged her hard, then looked down at her face earnestly, "It’s all right," he said emphatically, "No lasting harm has been done. I forgive you!"
Her huge tearful smile was worth a fortune.
"Oh yeah!" shouted Prendergast desperately, "That’s what you think! You haven’t got anything against me!"
But Laurence decided that now was as good a time as any to play the trump card. As Rachel smiled at him, then her heart singing, skipped happily back to the line, the young man went on, "As a matter of fact, Prendergast I have! You have no credit now, so belt up!" He addressed the crowd, "Folks, we have as you all know, a very good orchestra, and a top-notch Musical Director who has been with us for a long, long time. But I was passing the director’s door just before this performance started tonight and I heard something that I feel you ALL ought to know about."
Prendergast suddenly saw what was coming; "Now just a minute Laurence, you creep, you didn’t hear a thing…!"
But he could not interrupt Laurence who shouted on, "Your esteemed director had the audacity to sack our Musical Director just before the show started tonight. He seems to think that Mr. Cuthbertson, a man who has worked soul to the bone for this show, was to blame for the show’s poor showing. His words were quite clear, and the meaning was quite unmistakable! ‘Cuthbertson,’ he said, ‘you will not be required for any more shows after this one finishes. Your lack of musical talent and disgraceful musical direction has ruined this show.’"
Prendergast’s jaw dropped. "How - dare - you!" he shouted righteously, "I never said anything of the sort! How dare you accuse me…"
"YES YOU DID!" shouted a voice from the pit, and everyone looked down at the furious face of Francis Cuthbertson. "You certainly did, Prendergast, you skunk!" he finished.
Laurence nodded and gave an evil chuckle as the man confirmed his words, "Thank you Francis!" Then he put his hands on his hips and turned on his director with narrowed furious eyes, "Oh no, no, Prendergast, you’re not going to talk your way out of this as easily as you talked your way out of so many other tight spots, and many times ruining other peoples’ lives! Look at world-class choreographer Michelle Howard, whom you fired four years ago! Jennifer Talbert, the choreographer, last year! And only three weeks ago, top choreographer Penny Gregory and singing instructor Jennifer Raymond! Hey, Jennifer was overweight - we could all see that! But there was no reason at all for you to call her ‘a fat, ugly pig’ to her face; and in front of everyone!! And then the evil way you sacked them in front of everyone, and they crept out of the theatre weeping with embarrassment! And many others right through the five years since you took over! Fine singing instructors, choreographers, musicians, anyone who looked like they were going to be better than you! You fired them and through your evil words made them look worse than useless! And Francis…." Laurence looked down at his friend, and Cuthbertson gave a wry grin, "…Francis is the last, in a long, long line! And - ye gods - you even tried to frame me! And you KNOW I would never molest a child!" He turned and looked fondly at the front line of youngsters, "I love them too much to even hurt them, let alone molest them! They are our future!" He turned to his soon-to-be-ex-director, and the words tumbled out, "You are a scoundrel, Prendergast! It is totally your fault that this show has fallen! I hope you can live with your conscience! It must have taken a beating over the years!"
As Laurence’ incriminating litany continued to pour out, Prendergast glanced down at the audience.
Someone in the front row was writing furiously.
And grinning!
It was an announcer from the local radio station. A detached part of Prendergast’s mind filled in the name, Ian Patterson.
Oh gods! Thought Prendergast in panic, It’ll all be broadcast for the world! Patterson’s show, they all knew, was broadcast all over the nation, and listened to by millions! He could hear the grin become laughter throughout the whole State as his reputation went right down the sewer!
The shadowy figure in the second to front row found himself smiling. He could never have done it this well!
Prendergast turned, teeth bared in desperate anger, to Laurence who had paused for breath, "Laurence, that’s it! Get out of here! You’ll never be wanted for Gang Show ever again!" The little weasel’s voice rose in fear as he spoke, "And I will make doubly sure that you are never employed in a stage show ever again!"
Laurence grinned. "So?" retorted the young man, and folding his arms and looking down his nose he sneered, "I - don’t - care! I was going to quit anyway!" Prendergast’s jaw dropped. "Believe me, I would never want to be involved in anything that you produce or direct ever again! Now listen Prendergast." He poked the little man in the chest, "There is something you should realise. Gang Show, however great it is, is only entertainment. It is not essential for human existence. I and the other adults in the cast and crew have perfectly good jobs outside of Gang Show, and the kids’ parents care for them outside of the show too, and none of us have to come to YOU for a good name, or a crust of bread, or a roof over our heads – a fact that seems to have totally passed you by! It would not worry me a scrap if I never saw you or your pathetic show ever again!
"Now. I am going to walk out that door, right now, and I would be very surprised if the whole cast and crew did not follow me!"
He turned to the stunned audience, and shouted, "Ladies and Gentlemen, you have just seen the Graham Prendergast Show; sometimes laughingly called the South State Gang Show! Goodbye Mister Prendergast! Here, you can keep this! I wouldn’t soil my scarf with it!" And he ripped off the silver-plated South State Gang Show woggle from his red scarf and threw it at the feet of his ex-director. The little metal ‘S-S’ engraved cylinder jingled and rang as it bounced across the floor to come to a halt against Prendergast’s shoe.
"B...but…Prendergast’s voice trembled a little, then he decided to bluster. "All right, go then!" he shouted, "You’ll not be missed, you stupid little twerp! I made a mistake re-enlisting you in this show! But everyone else is behind me, and nobody else will leave!" Prendergast almost crowed, "This Gang Show is much bigger than you will ever be, you miserable little pervert!" Laurence gave a bitter guffaw. "Get out! Go on, get out! The show will be quite safe and will go on without you!"
"Oh really? Will it?" And Laurence looked up from the process of folding his scarf. He looked around at the cast, the red triangle of cloth still dangling from his fingers. Most had fiendish grins on their faces as they watched the confrontation develop, "You want to put on another week of pitiful shows?" he asked them. There was a massed shaking of heads. He looked around at the audience, "Does anyone want to see them?" There was another mass shaking of heads. He grinned mirthlessly, "Uh-huh, I thought not!" Then he was struck by a thought, and chuckled, "D’you know Prendergast, you fit your name! It comes from the French," he went on deliberately, " – from prendre – to take, and gateâu - the cake! And man-oh-man, you sure DO!!"
There was a roar of laughter from cast, crew and audience alike, and Prendergast stood there, his jaw dragging in dismay.
"Prendergast," sneered Laurence as he finished folding his red scarf and put it in his pocket, "you are welcome to do the whole of this pathetic show by yourself!" Then he bent over and deliberately spat on the little man’s shoe, "Be – My – Guest!" Then he stood back, spread his arms wide, and his voice jeered, "Ladies and Gentlemen - presenting the Graham Prendergast One-Man Show!"
There was a burst of ironic applause.
He continued, "Goodbye Prendergast, and may I make it quite plain, that it has NOT been a pleasure!" he finished, wiggling his fingers at the man ironically.
Then he turned and stalked off stage, accompanied by a shout of raucous laughter and a ripple of ironic applause, as to a man the whole cast and crew trooped out after him, most of them ripping off their own woggles and leaving them at the feet of the man who had single-handedly ruined the whole South State Gang Show!
"Hey! Just a moment! Stop! I order you to stop right now…" shouted Prendergast in desperation, and tried to stem the tide of the exodus.
"Shaddap, you heap of crap!" replied another adult as he threw his woggle at the man, catching him in the shoulder, then walking almost right through him, he pushed the weasel out of the way and walked out.
Then fifty-five year old Alan O’Dowd, the oldest man of the cast who had been with the show for almost thirty years, paused as he came to the skinny man, and towered over him. He took the other’s nerveless hand, placed his golden ‘ten-year’ woggle in it, and closed the fingers over it delicately, "He’s right you know, Prendergast;" he said very loudly, "I’ve seen them all - and this show has never been so bad! You - are pathetic!"
And he shook his head, and walking out the stage door, slammed it loudly with a hollow, and somehow final bang behind him.
Prendergast stood there alone, stage centre, humiliated in front of the whole country, and watched his Gang Show; his OWN Gang Show, curl up and die.
A cymbal clang came from below and a movement caught his eye. The orchestra were filing out of the pit, the drummer wrapping up his drums in double-quick time.
"Francis!" cried Prendergast in desperation, sweat pouring down his face, "Oh hell, please... don’t go!"
Cuthbertson stopped, looked up at his director with his hands on his hips, and sneered, "Oh yes, now everything has come to a head, it’s ‘Francis’ now, isn’t it! Why shouldn’t I go? Why not, eh? You’ve sacked me; remember? Laurence was right! You couldn’t direct your own bum!" (Crash! went the big cymbal, falling on the ground.) "With no directional talent whatsoever, you tried to do a big-stage show, in a small-stage theatre, on a puppet-show budget! And you’ve failed, Prendergast! And it’s your own fault! And dammit, you had the barefaced effrontery to frame him and blame me! You criminal! Hah!" he jeered, "You’ll never have this orchestra again, and you CERTAINLY won’t have me! And no other musical director in the world will want to work with you once the word gets out - ever! So GoodBYE! And good flaming riddance!"
And he walked out, giving Prendergast a two-fingered salute with both hands as he disappeared.
The drummer, who had been on the end of his own share of insults from Prendergast, could not resist it, and gave a ‘shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits’ on his snare before tucking it under his arm, blowing a raspberry at Prendergast and walking out with a huge grin on his face.
Prendergast was left standing on an empty stage, with his show in ruins.
The audience had watched all this in stunned silence. Then from the back of the theatre came a chuckle.
And in a moment the whole audience was laughing. Not the happy laughter of a crowd entertained, but the mocking laughter of people who saw justice - albeit rough justice - done! The now-ex-director’s eyes were wide open and his jaw had fallen in shock.
He was still trying desperately to come to grips with the fact that his Show had very suddenly died a horrible death, when the shadowy figure who had been sitting in the second row all this time, stood up and finally stepped out onto the stage and into the light.
He was a tall man with a light brown Gillwell Scarf and Woggle, four Wood-badge beads, and a wealth of badges on his chest and arms.
It was Gregory Shaw, the Scouting Commissioner for the district!
"Mr. Prendergast," he said loudly but in a neutral voice, "I would like a word with you!"
Ah! Thought Prendergast, Greg Shaw! Thank god! Now we’ll get somewhere! "Hi Greg," he began, "Nice to see you. Perhaps if we could go into my changing room." His voice began its climb to utter outrage, "I want to make a complaint about Laurence and his…"
But Shaw’s face creased into fury and he stepped up and confronted the man.
"Listen, Prendergast - it is Mr. Shaw to you," he thundered, "and I’ll speak with you right here and now!"
There was a pause as Prendergast realised with horror that far from being an ally, Shaw was there in a totally different role! The crowd went silent.
Shaw gave a very thin, tight little smile, "I have been receiving many complaints about this show from past audiences, and tonight I decided to attend!" He paused, then went on loudly, "I watched this show from the back." He drew in a deep breath, "I have never seen such a pathetic display! It was embarrassing to the extreme, (especially that awful rap!) and then the facts that came out after that…!" Shaw shook his head, "I think you should know that I will be making representation to the Board of Directors on the state of this Gang Show, and after I get though with it, I very much doubt that you will ever find a position in Gang Show, or indeed Scouting, ever again." The Commissioner’s voice rose in indignation, and he snarled, "What sort of monster are you - sacking people for no reason at all, and even framing them with molestation of all things! How dare you!" he paused, then, his face contorted in fury, dropped the final bombshell, "Prendergast, your warrant as Scoutmaster is hereby permanently revoked, and the South State Gang Show is dissolved until further notice!"
And as Prendergast’s mouth dropped even further in horrified silence, Shaw deliberately pulled off the little weasel’s Gillwell woggle and GS-emblazoned scarf, and then ferociously ripped off the Gang Show and Scoutmaster badges from the skinny man’s white uniform top, tearing the material in the process. He bundled them into his pocket, snarling, "Good-bye!", then turned on his heel and left, to the sound of ragged applause as the tiny crowd filed out the door leaving an empty theatre.
"Mr. Prendergast!" It was Patterson, and he was holding a miniature recorder. He almost stuffed the microphone into Prendergast’s mouth, "Tell me - sir - , now that the Show is totally washed up and you have been uncovered as a monster, how does it feel to be a downright and complete loser?"
Patterson was not normally this vehemenant, but the day before he had been taken to the cleaners by the Minister of Finance who was one of the most evil men he had ever had the misfortune to interview, and he desperately wanted to take out his fury on someone else. And Prendergast just happened to be in the firing line!
"I…er…Mr. Patterson, I…. uh…" Then the little man tried desperately to pull himself together, "Now look here, Patterson, how dare you…"
"Yes, I do dare," snarled Patterson, glaring into Prendergast’s eyes, "and I’ll dare a lot more than this before my time is up! Now answer the damned question, you third-rate excuse for a pile of excrement!"
"I…I…Uh…" Prendergast finally realised he could not win, and stammered to silence, totally at a loss.
Patterson grinned evilly, "Yes, I thought so. You heard it first here folks; Graham Prendergast’s pathetic South State Gang Show, a total disgrace since he took over from Mr. Thompson, has been officially dissolved at long last, and he has been dismissed from Scouting! It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, folks! Wow, what a turn up…" Patterson turned away from the stricken ex-director, still raving triumphantly into his recorder, and walked out.
Then the lights in the theatre went out.
There was silence.
Then in the darkness came a heart-broken sob.
It was accompanied by faltering footsteps as the skinny man staggered outside into the late afternoon sun, tears streaming down his face, his life completely shattered!
***************
One of the junior members of the cast saw a car approaching as the boy walked home. It was Prendergast’s ancient Hillman Imp, heading southward toward the coast. The car came to a stop at the lights, and the lad noted that Prendergast had tears pouring down his face, and appeared to be shouting to himself and hammering the wheel with both hands. But there was too much noise from the surrounding traffic and the boy could not hear what the weasel was saying. Then the lights changed, and with a teeth-jarring clash of gears the car roared off down the road towards the sea….
***************
Hayman’s Beach lies on the coast about fifty miles to the south of Griffith City, and is very rarely frequented, since there is a very rough thirty-mile gravel track leading to the nearest main road, and the beach itself is small, and has little sand. It is almost entirely stones and gravel. The closest settlement is the tiny village of Hayman’s Corner, almost seven miles inland.
Later that evening, in Hayman’s Corner, - someone - broke into the tiny drugstore and stole a bottle of strychnine – a very potent poison.
The thief was never found…
As the sun touched the horizon, any observer would have seen a small Hillman Imp car as it drove a little erratically out of the track, and bounced and jounced out along the stony beach front. Then it turned away from the sea, its lights picking out a tunnel as it drove into the dunes. Finally about a mile or so into the dune field, and out of sight of the beach, it bogged down in a patch of soft, shifting sand.
The motor roared for a moment, the wheels throwing up clouds of sand and pebbles, then it stalled and stopped with a clunk.
The figure inside moved for a moment, then was still.
The sun set.
After a few hours the lights of the car began to fade.
By morning they had expired completely.
By the end of the week the tracks in the sand had completely disappeared
Within six months, rust was making great inroads on the metal of the car.
It never moved again…
****************

Seven years later, almost to the day, Greg Shaw sat down at his study desk and opened his mail.
And one letter made him sit up and take notice. It was short and to the point…

Dear Greg,
I have been thinking hard about the South State Gang Show, and how Prendergast left it in ruins.
I feel I can run it. I would like the opportunity to try.
Please send permission, by return mail if possible, so that I can start work.
Yours faithfully,
Alan O’Dowd.

With a grin, Shaw picked up a pen…
*************************
Three days later on the other side of town, Laurence’ phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Craig Laurence?"
"Yes?"
"This is Alan O’Dowd from the South State Gang Show."
"Oh, hello Alan; how are you?!" Craig grinned. He had always liked O’Dowd.
The two exchanged pleasantries and caught up with each other.
Eventually Laurence said, "OK Alan, you didn’t ring me up to say howdy. What’s cooking?"
O‘Dowd’s voice grinned, "Craig, I feel that I could put together a show at least as well as a – ahem – ‘certain other person’ could!" Both men chuckled. "I have been given permission by Greg Shaw, and would consider it an honour if you would join me as I attempt to resurrect the South State Gang Show, this time sans Prendergast."
Laurence laughed eagerly, "Yes, certainly! I would love to!" Then the young man had a thought, "Have you managed to get a Musical Director?"
O’Dowd’s voice smiled, "I certainly have! Cuthbertson has agreed to return for just one show – but I got the feeling that if we made it a good one he would return for good!"
"Great!"
"By the way - you remember Rachel Parsons?"
"Uh-huh?"
"She had a lovely soprano. I’d like to get her back too. Do you know where she is?"
Laurence’ voice grinned hugely, "I should! I married her!"
There was joyous laughter on both ends of the line.
*********************
And so five months later the show tentatively reopened, still in the Unicorn.
O’Dowd employed three choreographers and two singing instructors, (including, after assuring her that Prendergast was nowhere to be seen, and would have nothing to do with the show, Michelle Howard) and gave them full reign, with the only stipulation that they work in close conjunction with each other, himself and Cuthbertson, which they were all very happy to do! And unlike Prendergast, O’Dowd knew his limitations, and believed in teamwork. Right from the start, they were working from a full show script which had been nailed down and carved in marble before a single note was played.
Alan, Craig and Francis had held a meeting to decide on it, and Craig shyly brought out a folder.
"I…I had a go at this. See what you think!"
Alan glanced at the title, then did a double take and his jaw dropped.
‘Crisis on Ganymede!’
"Oh NO!" he almost shouted, "You can not possibly be serious!"
Francis was equally shocked, "Craig, you idiot! We can’t do that thing! It was an utter disaster!"
Craig smiled knowingly, "Well, have a quick look. See, the concept was good, even if the execution was dreadful. I had a go at it. See what you think?"
The two nodded, and O’Dowd began to read, Francis looking over his shoulder. By the time they reached the bottom of the second page, both were smiling.
The story was indeed roughly the same. But the awful speech patterns had gone. So had the dreadful jokes. In their place were six exceptional and very relevant jokes, at which both of them roared with laughter, and the whole sketch hung together beautifully!
"Craig - you're a genius!" cried O'Dowd.
"Yeah, but what about that rap?" asked Cuthbertson, his heart suddenly sinking.
"Would you like to do it again?" asked Craig, with the wickedest twinkle in his eyes.
"WHAT!!??"
Laurence burst into laughter. "Don’t worry, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy! No, have a listen to this."
And taking out a piece of manuscript he walked over to the piano, and sat down.
The tune he played was almost like a national anthem in its grandness and beauty. While being very singable it had an ethereal quality which spoke of the openness and breathtaking beauty of Outer Space, and O’Dowd breathed happily. It fit the atmosphere of the sketch perfectly. Yes, that was exactly what was required!
They both applauded heartily as Laurence finished. "That’s it!" cried Cuthbertson, "Well done, Craig! We’ll do it!"
"Had an idea you might!" grinned the young man.
The script was finalised and put in place.
Then it was all on.
After every rehearsal, there was a meeting, and everyone put his or her thoughts into the discussion. Week by week the show was honed like a razor, and by the time it was ready to go to stage everyone knew exactly what was wanted and what they had to do. The choruses had never sounded so confident, the dancing was perfect, the solos were all that could be wished for, the sketches were tight and the jokes perfectly timed. The cast and crew were ecstatic! And O’Dowd was very happy. Nobody, he felt, except perhaps Ralph Reader himself, could have done any better.
However for the first week the show looked like it was going to go the way of the others, as the audiences, although receptive and very responsive, were pitifully small.
After the Thursday show had finished, to a crowd of no more than seventy, O’Dowd and Laurence, with Rachel, Cuthbertson and the rest of the staff were in the little office, and O’Dowd sat at his desk, his head in his hands.
"It looks like Prendergast’s ghost has finally had his revenge – damn him!" he muttered.
The rest had to nod. It seemed like the shadow of the evil director was hanging over the show, and would do all in its power to destroy the newly resurrected programme.
"Hey," said Laurence intensely and sincerely, "Don’t blame yourself Alan; you - (chuckle) - did your best," he paused and gave the scout sign, and everyone chuckled wryly, "…and you have done more than anyone could to bring this show up."
Cuthbertson nodded, "That’s true. You can hold your head high, pal. Even if the show is a box-office failure, it sure is a stage success. Hey, this show is as good as the Thompson shows!"
Everyone in the room nodded.
Then just as O’Dowd was about to answer, the phone rang.
"O’Dowd, Unicorn?" said the big man mechanically.
"Is that the South State Gang Show director?" came an unknown voice.
O’Dowd wondered what was coming. For a horrible split second he thought it was Prendergast calling up to gloat, but then realised that the accent was totally different from Prendergast’s. "Y…yes?" he replied hesitantly.
"This is South State Lions Club; secretary speaking. We have just had a very promising report of your show from one of our members who attended tonight. He loved it! We would like to book the whole theatre for next Sunday evening for a private showing for our members and their guests. Two hundred seats, isn’t it?"
O’Dowd sat there, his mouth open.
"Hello?" came the voice.
"Y…yes! Yes, certainly!"
"Good. I’ll be in tomorrow to collect the tickets and pay for them! My name is Katterick."
O’Dowd managed to close his mouth, "Th…thank you Mr. Katterick!"
He put the phone down and looked around at his friends, his jaw still dragging.
Rachel was first to break the silence, "Alan, what’s going on? Who's Katterick?"
"It…it…I…"
"Come on man!" cried Cuthbertson, "Pull yourself together!"
O’Dowd did so. "It was the secretary of the local Lions Club," he gulped, "They…they’ve bought out every ticket in the place for the Sunday evening performance!" He looked around at his friends, "Folks! I think we’re in business!"
The Sunday show went without a hitch, to a full house for the first time for a long, long time! (In fact they had to bring in extra chairs as there were several others who had already bought tickets for the show, and the audience actually numbered 236!) The whole audience, Lions club personnel included, were very appreciative, and at the end they all stood and gave prolonged applause to the show. The cast and crew were left glowing with pleasure and pride!
Then the next week the word spread – South State Gang Show was nothing like it had been before! It was good!
From then on the show became so popular that on the following Wednesday afternoon O’Dowd crossed his fingers and walked into the office of David Jansen, the caretaker of the Unicorn.
"Hello Alan!"
"Hello Mr Jansen, I have a question for you."
"Yes?"
"Is there another show coming into the Unicorn after we leave?"
Jansen paused, and looked up at the huge perpetual calendar over his desk, "No major ones, not for another month."
O’Dowd swallowed and bit his lower lip before phrasing the question, "Is…is it possible to hold over the Gang Show for an extra week? We are going so well, and there have been many phone calls to order seats which we just have not got!"
Jansen grinned widely, "Yes, I know. I have been getting a few of them too," he replied with typical understatement. His own phone had been running hot! He traced the weeks following with his finger, and tapped on two days. "We’ve got two concerts, but they can be done in front of the black tabs. One in the afternoon during the week. The other is next Wednesday night. If you can afford to lose that night, then I see no reason why not. Normal hirage fees, payable after the show finishes!"
O’Dowd was ecstatic. "Thank you VERY much!"
The further week, minus the Wednesday night, was sold out within a day of it being advertised. To compensate they played a third show on the Saturday at 5 pm.
And it was a roaring success!
The show closed finally on the Sunday night, and many of the kids went home in tears of joy, for nobody wanted the show to end, it had gone so well.

Two weeks later, Richard Spencer, secretary of the Albion-St John Theatre committee was sitting in his office, looking rather gloomily at a poster. It was the poster for the last South State Gang Show, and he had heard just how good it was. "I wish we could get it back," he thought, "What a huge money-spinner that would be. Such a pity that Thompson died, and an even bigger pity…" he grinned wryly, "…that the show was ruined by Prendergast. Dreadful man. Oh well, I suppose we’ll just have to grin and bear it."
Then just as he put down the poster, the phone rang.
"Albion-St John Theatre; can I help you?" He said mechanically.
"Could I speak to Mr Richard Spencer please?"
"Speaking."
"Hello, my name is Alan O’Dowd of the South State Gang Show…"
Spencer could hardly believe it! O’Dowd must have been reading his mind! "Ah," he said, "Hello Mr. O’Dowd, I had hoped you would ring!"
O’Dowd’s voice paused, then went on, "Well Mr Spencer, er…w…would you see your way clear to making the Albion-St John available for my Gang Show again…?" He was obviously rattling off the question quickly before his nerve gave out!
"Yes!" Spencer said sincerely, "Yes indeed. Since Prendergast took over and the show went down the drain we have been longing for something to happen! Mr Thompson’s show had been one of the highlights of our year. But then, when Prendergast was …er…‘retired’" Alan heard a wry grin in the words, "… and the show closed down we thought it would never come back. But this year we heard how good it was! You only had to ask! We’ll clear three weeks next year for you, the usual dates, as well as two weeks for in-theatre rehearsals!"
On the other end O’Dowd managed, "Th…thank you very much!" Then he put down the phone feeling like Cinderella just fitted with the glass slipper!
A year later the South State Gang Show moved back into the Albion-St John Theatre with full advertising and much fanfare, to three full weeks of packed houses.
It was almost like coming home.
And taking centre stage in many of the sketches as well as three very complex solos was Craig Laurence - scarcely able to control his joy! One Ralph Reader song in the show he sang from the heart:
"I’d never change with a man with a million,
for I’ve got a million blessings more!"
He had never been so happy!
Sketches, songs and jokes followed each other in profusion, and the audiences were alternately rocking with laughter, or singing along with the joyous, well-known tunes, or marvelling at the delightful dance routines.
And in the pit, with a broad smile on his face, stood Francis Cuthbertson, conducting his orchestra (now expanded to its original size!) in peace and harmony. Every now and then he met Laurence’ gaze, and they both grinned happily. What a change to Prendergast’s so-called productions!
On the closing night the whole cast were ecstatic, and some of the kids almost in tears. The show had gone so well they felt very sorry to see it close. And then, as the last chorus of ‘Crest of a Wave’ echoed into the huge hall, the audience, numbering almost the full 4000, stood and burst into rapturous applause! The cheers and clapping went on for almost five minutes, and the cast had to do two encores!
Eventually, O’Dowd, with his golden woggle replaced and worn with pride, stood there in front of his cast – HIS cast - with a grin so wide it almost split his face.
Alongside him stood the back-stage crew, and among them, Michelle Howard, her eyes sparkling in happiness, and her faith in human nature fully restored!
Behind them stood Laurence, with just as big a grin, and alongside him Rachel, who had grown into a beautiful young lady, her joy unmistakeable. She reached out and took his hand, and they smiled very happily at each other.
Below them, Cuthbertson breathed a deep sigh of pleasure, and nodded in thanks to his orchestra.
All felt so proud they were almost bursting. They had done it. From a show that was dead and cold, a total and utter loss, they had resurrected a success story better than any of them could have dared to hope!
And this was only the beginning! They were all looking forward to many more successful shows in the years to come.
The future for the South State Scout Gang Show was looking very bright indeed!

Three years later…

Martin Warren, owner and operator of Hayman’s Corner Drug Store was sitting in his parlour reading the day’s edition of the Griffith Evening Star, when his eyes caught sight of something at the bottom of page 36 - a tiny two inch report....

"Ah," Warren thought to himself with a wry grin, "I wondered where that extra bottle of strychnine had got to!"
And he promptly forgot about it, and turned the page….