CHARLIE AND THE LACE FACTORY
Monday 4th May 1904, Grand Theatre Radford Road, Hyson Green
Evening performance of Sherlock Holmes over, Charles Chaplin aged 15
Collar askew from a swift costume change leaves Billie the page boy behind
And cheekily slaps the final drop curtain just below King Charles head
The sun-light overhead sputters and dies leaving the stalls gloomy
As he exits through the corridor of mirrors, flickering like a film
He turns left on to Gregory Boulevard which is quiet now, audience departed
The half-moon illuminates the Forest park to his right, a few stars above the trees
Cold now he huddles in his thin jacket, stuffs hands in pockets and half-runs
Ahead the last tram descending the Mansfield road clatters in the darkness
A cab rattles past him headed toward Hyson Green its two jovial occupants singing
Then silence, just his own steps and far off an occasional cry, or clack of hooves
Latecomers emerging from the Grovesnor Hotel or workers leaving late shift
At the Mansfield Road a sudden burst of steam and noise as a train exits the tunnel
Then silence again as just Charlie and his shadow dance their way up Sherwood rise
Carrington Market is busy with late drinkers fresh off their factory shifts
The rumble of machinery echoes across the granite sets, mixes with brewery smells
A quick tap at the door and Mrs Hodgkinson lets him into his digs at number 100
From the back high window he looks down on the Burton and Sewell factories below
Their dark brick walls dotted with illuminated floors of workers making lace
Women on one floor tending the bobbins and un-twirling long lines of thread
Below men tending to the machines as they endlessly repeat their movements
He thinks he catches a smile from one young girl but she is gone in an instant
He is left hanging out of the top window watching clouds cross the moon
His only companion a rabbit hidden beneath the bed can be heard scratching
He feeds it leftover stale bread he’d been given that morning
Watches the endless repetitive machines coming and going over and over
The steady hum of machines that brought him to this place, steam and iron
The flicker of images that will be with him throughout these modern times
He thinks of his mother in confinement, his brother tending a bar in London
He hardly speaks except when on stage and wanders a different town weekly
Too late to play loudly he picks up his fiddle and bow one more time
And stood in the window, in moonlight, imagines himself a famous musician
He glides the bow gently across the strings, hardly a sound can be heard
He serenades the men and women below, all the world his stage forever…
- The lace factory now a care home behind imported plastic net curtains
A woman in her 80s suffering dementia suddenly remembers her mother speaking
About a night she saw Charlie Chaplin playing to the stars but no-one believed her
How one day he’d return and play one last reel for her….forever.
Lovely piece of writing. I currently live very close to 100 Mansfield Road and can remember the old (huge) Lace Factory. It was semi-derelict and mostly unused when I first moved to this part of town in the ’90s but was occasionally used as a makeshift venue for late-night parties (“raves”). The barber who owns the shop next door to number 100 is keeping the Chaplin connection alive and will talk to anybody about it if they ask him.
Sadly Ian the barber has retired for good now although when I last in for a haircut he still had a cutting about Chaplin framed on the wall. Apparently when they renovated the house next door they found the cutting there.