The Guardian, 27.11.93

IT WAS a summons no self-respecting Marx Brothers fan could ignore: "Hope Quackenbush needs you in Baltimore." "But Monday's my day off!"

Publicity man Bob Fennell was looking apologetic. "Baltimore is kinda slow."

Slow? Didn't this production pack the Lyttleton for something like 18 months? Standing room only when we toured Newcastle, Sheffield, Bradford, Bath and Edinburgh. Aren't we currently wowing 'em in Stamford, Connecticut? And isn't the advance at our next date, the Brooklyn Academy Of Music, breaking all records? "Kinda slow?" Oh, I get it. A joke. Bob looked serious.

"Traditionally slow?" I asked nervously. "... or is it just us?" "Well," he began. "Let me put it this way. If you'd been bringing a musical � or a Neil Simon... Hope's sure it will pick up. But she needs you at the press conference. What can I tell her?" I raised and lowered my eyebrows, puffing on an imaginary cigar. "Ah! Mrs Quackenbush, I presume - or may I hope to call you Hope?"

There she was to meet us at the airport. What a let-down. The only Marxist thing about her was her size. She was, appropriately, Junoesque. But, that said, all comparisons with the legendary Margaret Dumont faded.

We took off under glowering skies. Reports had reached us of "appalling conditions in the north". Our aircraft seemed disconcertingly small and, as we bounced up and down, even the young lady who comprised the cabin staff seemed ill-at-ease. Was her hairstyle reflecting the current trend - or just blind panic?

Barely had she warned us against smoking in the rest rooms than the seatbelt sign was slammed on again and we all pretended what fun it was to be hurled about. Thousands of feet below, the wooded islands seemed a haven. I had an urgent need to visit them. The plane lurched drunkenly. Supposing it snapped?

Luckily it didn't, though I nearly did. We touched down smoothly to the obligatory "Welcome to Baltimore", the pilot adding as an afterthought, "There's rain approaching us from the east." Then it hit us. "Only a squall," muttered the pilot. "It'll be over in just a minute."

It wasn't. In fact, 20 minutes later, with nobody yet able to leave the aircraft, it had got decidedly worse. Eventually, we decided to make a dash for it. Dashing was a mistake, the water going straight through the shoes and up the trouser legs. The giant black limo glided through the flooded streets like an alligator on the Nile. As we paused at the lights, Hope pointed out a building across the road. "There's our theatre! The Morris A Mechanic!" I could hardly believe my eyes. It was a friend! A friend on this bleak, damp and miserable day. The jolly old National glumly transplanted from the South Bank to historic downtown Baltimore! Same old dreary concrete, rain-stained, grey and unwelcoming. What joy. What nostalgia. We'll certainly feel at home here!

The press conference was sparsely attended � an ominous portent?� pockets of journalists dotted about a large room. "It's the adverse weather conditions," explained Hope. I said, "You know, a number of the flights from Stamford were cancelled. I'm a little bit anxious about flying on to New York when this is over."

Hope's eyes lit up like a little girl's. "Take the train," she whispered, conspiratorially. The train! That's more like it. My stomach hadn't totally recovered from the flight, and the upside-down cake which I had for breakfast had righted itself. The press conference dragged on...

We made the train with 30 seconds in hand, managed to grab a seat, and sat back in comfort to watch the soggy outskirts of Baltimore give way to dense areas of woodland and the vast grey reaches of Chesapeake Bay.

PATRONS of the Morris A Mechanic Theatre were mostly subscription ticket holders. But enthusiasm for the show had pushed common sense aside, and the decision had been to go ahead without throwing it open to the subscription members. So nobody booked, which was why I'd been summoned to Baltimore. I listened to the tale of woe, then turned to face Bob.

"It's a cock-up, isn't it? What the hell are we doing three weeks in Baltimore for? Why didn't we go to Washington or Philadelphia?" Bob kept a diplomatic silence. "Well," I went on, "If they go for musicals and Neil Simon at the Morris A Mechanic (the name was beginning to lodge in my throat), what made anyone think they'd turn out for Alan Bennett?" Bob smiled wanly. "There's word-of-mouth, we mustn't forget that. When they read the reviews they'll go and book." "That's if the local critics like us!" I snorted. Apparently, the New York critics � unanimous in their praise � don't count in Baltimore.

The lights in the compartment began to flicker, and passengers looked anxiously around. Power failure � though, at this stage, more of a reluctance than a failure. However, it was only a matter of seconds before we were plunged into darkness. The guard spoke over the public address system. "We'll be continuing with no electricity on the train." We didn't care. No hurry. Get to New York at midnight if it has to be that way. We'd forgotten about the air conditioning.

The train had no windows which opened. It had reached Baltimore from Washington and the rest rooms had been pretty active. It wasn't long before we all paid the penalty. The man behind doused himself in aftershave lotion. Very soon, atomisers were hissing all over the compartment. Outside, the view appeared to be the same old clump of trees. Were we going round in a circle? I glanced at my watch. Half an hour before we were scheduled to arrive in New York, yet here we were in the middle of a forest. And the smell was getting worse.

But, just when death from asphyxiation seemed inevitable, there was New Jersey and, across the marshland, the skyscrapers of Manhattan. We tumbled out at Penn Station, gulping in the relatively fresh air. We flung ourselves into a yellow cab and scuffled off in the direction of a favourite restaurant. But the cab bit a pothole, ruining the suspension, and by the time we got to the restaurant it was closed. It had been that sort of a day.

As far as straight plays are concerned �and I suppose one might classify Alan Bennett's play as that � the theatre to which we'd been allotted was a graveyard. Unaccustomed empty seats faced us night after night. It was all a bit dispiriting. Still, one can't hope for success every time. Serves us all right for thinking we'd got a hit.