The tradition of the “stage-door johnny” – typically men who hang about stage door with dubious intent towards a show’s stars – still lingers. Nevertheless, keepers have earned a reputation as stern – often grumpy-as-hell – operators; a reputation that has taken its place in theatre lore.

“They used to be a law unto themselves,” says Nick Bromley, a veteran West End company manager who has written a compendium of theatre ghost stories, Stage Ghosts and Haunted Theatres. “Most were retired actors. They worked long hours in cramped conditions; they were older, drunker, more belligerent. They could make or break a young actor if that actor didn’t treat them well. They could be dangerous people to cross.”

One such Cerberus was Harry Loman, a former music-hall comedian who became stage-door keeper at the Criterion during the 1950s at the age of 74. He once kicked Rudolf Nureyev out for trying to slip in unannounced and, on another occasion, refused to let Ingrid Bergman in, possibly because he didn’t know who she was.

In the era before mobile phones, a crucial part of a keeper’s job would be to pass on messages, but, again, the efficiency with which they carried out this task could vary.

“If you didn’t tip them, you would find that messages left for you wouldn’t arrive somehow, or your telephone messages wouldn’t get through,” says Bromley. “There was a funny chap at the [Theatre Royal] Haymarket during the Forties called Bibby who was famous for not being able to pass on messages very well. One day Sam Wanamaker popped round at stage door to see John Gielgud. The message came over the tannoy: ‘Sir John, Sam wants to make you …’ ”

Yet others are maternal and kind. One of the most fondly remembered keepers from recent times is Jill Hudson, who worked at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane for more than 30 years before retiring in 2017; she died in 2020. 

“Jill would get the actors out of all sorts of sticky situations, hauling them out of the pub at 2am and insisting they sleep it off in the dressing room,” says McDonagh. “When Dennis Waterman starred in My Fair Lady there, he built a bar in his,” adds Fox. “Everyone would pile in after the show. Jill turned a blind eye. I’ve even spent a night in a dressing room myself. Today everything is much more regulated.”

Inevitably, with theatres now run by consortiums rather than traditional managers, and as “health and safety” tightens its grip, the culture of the stage door is changing. Keepers now have contracted hours. And they oversee a far more controlled relationship between the public and celebrities. 

“You used to be able to ask at stage door if an actor would be willing to meet you, and if they were, they would send down their dresser and up you would go,” says Fox. “When I, as a small boy, went to see A Little Night Music at the Adelphi in 1975, I was desperate to meet Jean Simmons. 

“Watching the show, I became more impressed by Hermione Gingold, who I’d seen in Gigi, so I went to stage door with my great aunt and asked if Miss Gingold would be willing to say hello. Sure enough, we got invited to her dressing room and she signed the programme. And she also called in Jean Simmons whose dressing room was next door. That wouldn’t happen now.”