New Albion Page 7

  “Pay no attention to that,” said Mr. Wilton, waving his hand dismissively.

  Mr. Tyrone stood up quickly. “Is this sally old bastard insultin me now?”

  “Pay no heed,” Mr. Wilton fairly shouted. “Mr. Farquhar Pratt, are you now attempting to renegotiate your contract?”

  “I am.”

  “And what terms do you seek?” Mr. Wilton’s voice was low and steady.

  “Five pounds for the pantomime.”

  I could see the veins bulge in Mr. Wilton’s forehead. “Five pounds?” was his incredulous response. “That is highway robbery, sir.”

  “And,” said Mr. Farquhar Pratt, his spine still cracking straight, “the playwright shall retain sole rights to the piece.”

  “Sole rights?” repeated Mr. Wilton, as if he, and not Pratty, were the laudanum-zombie. “That is preposterous, sir, and it establishes a dangerous precedent. No theatre proprietor that I know of allows his stock playwright to retain the rights to commissioned plays.”

  “Well, you have my terms.” The old man slowly revolved in the office doorway as if to take his leave yet again.

  “Wait,” said Mr. Wilton, his face drained of blood. “You see that you have me over a barrel. I will accede to your demands. But,” he added, “I will ask that you maintain the schedule which Phillips has set down for you.”

  “I will have it in writing,” said Pratty.

  “Yes,” responded Mr. Wilton in a low voice, “you shall have a contract in writing by tomorrow morning at this time.”

  “Very good, then,” said Mr. Farquhar Pratt. With a disdainful glance at the rest of us, he took his leave.

  There was silence in Mr. Wilton’s office for a full two minutes after Pratty’s departure. Finally, young Mr. Tyrone broke the tension. “You shouldna let that old bastard talk to you like tha, sar” he said to Mr. Wilton. “Say the word and I’ll break his arms for ya.”

  * Chapter Six *

  Thursday, 17 October 1850

  Much gossip of late about Mr. Simpson’s runaway wife, Suzy. Nobody knows exactly where she is, but rumour has it that she and the wily Bancroft have made their way to Liverpool and, possibly, to Dublin. In the meantime, Fanny Hardwick and the Parisian Phenomenon have replaced Suzy Simpson in her customary roles.

  There have been no further recriminations between Mr. Hicks and Mr. Watts over the last three days, largely owing to the lucky circumstance that they did not again perform together in David Hunt until tonight. Neville Watts has been retiring to the Green Room after performances, and Mr. Hicks has quietly poured brandy down his throat moments before going on. George Simpson was standing in the wings with Mr. Watts tonight before the latter made his entrance, and they remarked between themselves how much under the influence of the bottle Mr. Hicks was. “If that man drops another cue-line tonight,” Neville Watts said to Mr. Simpson, “I will do more than politely shove him.”

  When Mr. Hicks forgot his first cue-line, Neville Watts could not hide his wrath. His face, assiduously made up to resemble either a weather-ravaged saddlebag or the visage of an aged frontiersman, momentarily contorted and became a gargoyle’s portrait, then, little by little, returned to an approximation of the character he was playing. Mr. Hicks dropped several lines over the course of the evening, but when he came to “brought about her ruin and cursed your dotage,” he articulated the consonants so fiercely that he sent a shower of spittle across Neville Watts’ face. Spittle, I might add, so substantial that Mr. Watts had to close his eyes to endure the deluge. When the line was finally said in its entirety, there was a string of spittle hanging from the tip of Neville Watts’ nose.

  Mr. Watts turned away with a start, as if he had given up and was retiring to the Green Room once again. Equally as suddenly, he turned round to the unsteady Mr. Hicks and, with a backhanded slap which might have made any Restoration gallant proud, he sent Mr. Hicks reeling into the scenery. Shaking his head furiously, as if he was not quite certain what had just transpired, Mr. Hicks said, in a magnificently rich voice, free of the slur and the wet glottal stops to which he had been prone over the course of the evening, “I think you have loosened my teeth, sir, and now I am about to loosen yours.” A comedic chase sequence followed, during which Mr. Hicks knocked the metal plates off the frontiersman's rough table and fell face-first on top of the stove which, according to the pretense of the play, had been red-hot only moments earlier. Catching hold of Mr. Watts’ collar, at last, Mr. Hicks delivered a set of blows which would have gladdened the heart of any enthusiast of the pugilistic arts.

  Somebody in the audience called out, “Hit him once for me, Seymour! That’ll teach the little ponce for thinking he could take your place.” The shenanigans were only stopped when myself and Mr. Simpson rushed from the wings and got between the pulverized Neville Watts and Mr. Hicks. By that time, several altercations had broken out in the gallery, between the rough supporters of Mr. Hicks and the more genteel supporters of Neville Watts. The police were eventually called, and a complete riot was, thankfully, avoided.

  It appears there will have to be another company meeting soon.

  Friday, 18 October 1850

  “There comes a point,” Mr. Wilton whispered to me, as we sat together in that conglomeration of tattered wallpaper and grimy windows which passes for our rehearsal hall, awaiting the reading of the new pantomime, “when one has to decide between a family business and an industrially evolved enterprise. I believe this theatre is at such a juncture. Shall we maintain our allegiances within this little theatrical family and satisfy ourselves that we represent the interests of the community aptly? Or shall we let true competition reign – bring in the great stars of today and tomorrow – and watch our little theatre become a standard bearer in the rise of the national drama?” His broad, mutton-chopped face was earnest, and his conversation had the secretive air of two businessmen conferring in a place where business was not understood or cared for.

  We were seated amid a gaggle of expectant actors and props and costume personnel. Mr. Wilton leaned forward, his ruddy face earnest, as though he urgently wanted a confidential reply. “I think that balance and equilibrium in all things is highly desirable,” I replied, as secretively as possible in such a gathering.

  Any furtherance of this conversation was prevented when the door flew open and Mr. Farquhar Pratt breezed in, looking younger than his sixty-eight years for the first time in a long while. Colin Tyrone trailed behind him, carrying a few yellowing papers in one hand as though they were dirty handkerchiefs. “I apologize outright for my tardiness in presenting to you my latest manuscript,” Pratty bellowed, motioning derisively at Mr. Tyrone to deliver it post haste. “Delays with the copyist have made this tardiness inevitable.”

  Mr. Tyrone delivered the play script, or what there was of it, into our waiting hands. Two meager pages. We had to satisfy ourselves with two meager pages.

  Still energized from the previous evening’s misadventures, and sporting a jagged cut over his left eye which was the apparent result of a collision with a piece of falling scenery, Mr. Hicks weighed the pages in his hand. “She’s a trifle deficient in the weight of her cargo,” he said amicably. “If you would be so kind, First Mate Tyrone, as to cast me the second, third, fourth, and fifth acts, as well.”

  Mr. Watts was nowhere to be seen; he had been given the day off to prepare for the evening’s performance of Fine Old British Veterans.

  Standing at the head of the table next to Old Stoneface, Pratty cleared his throat and made his address. “Time, with His stealing hand, has necessitated that I provide you with only the first scene of a manuscript that will move the British pantomime forward a hundred years. My heartfelt apologies for that,” and he cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Wilton, “but I must inform you that I only signed the contract for deliverance of this manuscript two mornings ago.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Wilton, not taking the bait, “let us read.” He cleared his throat and turned to Mr. Farquhar Pratt. “And who
m do you propose should read which part?”

  Pratty waved his hand erratically in the direction of the actors. “Immaterial at this moment,” he said. “Mr. Watts is not present?”

  There was a faint stirring amongst the acting company. Mr. Wilton leapt to the rescue. “Mr. Watts is presently indisposed,” he said, “due to an incident which shall be dealt with at a later date.”

  ‘Well then,” said the old man, “the part of Wanky Twanky Fum will fall to Mr. Hicks on this occasion. If Mr. Simpson could read the Genie. Miss Wilton, Chin Chan Chow. Mr. West, Noko. The rest shall fall out as it will.”

  Without further ado, we read through the first scene of the pantomime. It was as follows:

  Scene the First

  (Palace of Wanky Twanky Fum, Emperor of China)

  Noko. And will your father the Great Emperor Than Whom None Greater Can Be Imagined not countenance our marriage?

  Chin Chan Chow. Alas, good Noko, no. He is positively determined never to let me marry a military man. He served in the British Navy as a young boy, and therein he developed an antipathy for the army.

  Noko. And will he never relent, knowing our love to be true?

  Chin Chan Chow. Never. He says he would rather have molten gold poured down his throat. Oh me! I fear I shall die an old maid.

  (Enter Wanky Twanky Fum.)

  Wanky Twanky Fum. What’s this? What’s this? My own daughter disobeying my wishes? Did I not advise you, young lubber, to keep a league’s distance from my daughter?

  Noko. You did so advise.

  Wanky Twanky Fum. And did you not signal your acceptance of my advice?

  Noko. A mere mortal should not be made to promise what love alone can dictate.

  Chin Chan Chow. I love him, father. Are my wishes not enough?

  Wanky Twanky Fum. Harlot! Your wishes count for nothing. Am I not Emperor of China? Am I not Master in my own palace?

  (Enter a Genie.)

  Genie (aside). I am the Spirit of Chaos and will transform the scene. (to the others) Spare some change for a poor man, down on his luck?

  Wanky Twanky Fum. How did this beggar gain entrance to the palace? Be gone, sir, or I will have you beheaded.

  Genie. Is there no mercy for the poor traveler?

  Wanky Twanky Fum. None, sir, if you will not depart and leave me to sort out my domestic life.

  Genie. Very well. (He performs a spell, throwing a yellowish powder in their faces.) We’ll see how you fare in another realm.

  (He transforms the scene to the Kingdom of Needles and Pins.)

  As the reading came to an end, a silence descended upon the assembled artisans of the New Albion Theatre. Mr. Hicks stared at the second and last page for a good long time. The other actors looked about them in disbelief. Pratty sat, beaming at us with red-faced pride.

  “A good beginning,” Mr. Wilton allowed in measured tones. He was still staring at the pages in front of him. “But where is the harlequinade?”

  Mr. Farquhar Pratt chuckled to himself softly, as if he were enjoying a joke which none else present could fathom. “There is no harlequinade,” he said, at last. “There is only the Kingdom of Needles and Pins.”

  “No harlequinade?” responded Mrs. Wilton with a look of disbelief. “But my public is expecting me to perform the role of Columbine. I always perform the role of Columbine. And is there no dance for the Parisian Phenomenon?” The Parisian Phenomenon was, at that moment, primping her hair and staring samurai swords at Mr. West.

  “No dancing, madam,” replied Mr. Farquhar Pratt. “The new British pantomime will not tolerate anything so frivolous.”

  “What exactly is the Kingdom of Needles and Pins?” The question belonged to Mr. Wilton, who asked it soberly.

  “’Tis a Kingdom of the Imagination,” responded Pratty, “where life is everlasting and the good Luddite workers ply their trade in textile factories across the nation. There are only two enemies to the natural growth of such a state – the power loom and corrosion. The first of these is a man-made obstacle and can be dealt with easily by the workers, who threaten with muskets to tear down the local factory. The second is a natural enemy against whom the Needles and Pins wage a constant battle. Rust!” Pratty said the word emphatically, grinding a stubby finger into the table for effect. “Rust! Destroyer of all things. In the end, the New British Pantomime shall be a darker vehicle than its predecessor. It shall be the dark chariot of the four horsemen, the gondola which takes dead souls across the river Styx.” His oration done, Pratty looked expectantly from face to face.

  The good Mr. Simpson, who is nothing if not the soul of politeness, was the first to react. “Is this quite serious?” he asked mildly, his face as inquisitive as a blind mole’s in the summer sunlight. “Or is this a jest of some sort?”

  His eyes narrowing, Mr. Farquhar Pratt paused and then said, “Oh yes, it is serious, sir. More than serious.”

  Our costume mistress, Charlotte Hayes, was next to speak. The diminutive woman was shaking with her habitual shyness, but apprehension had forced her to find a voice. “May I ask,” she quavered, “what kinds of costumes they wear in the Kingdom of Needles and Pins?”

  “Why, costumes of steel, of course,” replied Pratty. “The characters are themselves needles and pins.”

  Like a frightened bird, Mrs. Hayes commenced to quiver; her eyes darted to and fro. “We still have chain mail left over from last year’s Shakespearean Festival. Would that suffice?”

  “Use what you will,” Pratty responded. “The writing will be forceful, as usual, and so will be the act of imagination behind it. The costumes will hardly be noticed.”

  It was the Chief Stagehand Mr. Sharpe who spoke next. He had been sitting as if he was unused to a chair. He tapped his sharp knuckles against the table. “Here then,” he said, his jaw thrust forward like a man who is permanently suspicious of actor-laddies and their stock playwright friends, “and what am I to make of the decor?”

  Pratty waved his hand vaguely again. “Why, the inside of a lady’s sewing box would be apt. All padded satin with needles stuck into it. The actors could sit on thimbles and spools of thread.”

  A silence descended upon the assembled company, broken only when Mr. Wilton said doubtfully, “Well then. I think we have to give Mr. Farquhar Pratt credit for creating something which is highly original and no doubt meritorious. And I think we have to trust his judgment in the matter when he tells us that it will be both entertaining and morally wholesome.” He looked around the table at the blank faces of the actors and assumed a confident face of his own. “When can we expect a fully realized play script, Mr. Farquhar Pratt?”

  “Early next week, sir,” intoned Pratty. “I am working on it day and night. But you must also realize that the work of a true artiste requires some time for gestation and some for writing up.”

  Mr. Wilton nodded his head. “I realize that, sir. Early next week sounds a capital time to begin rehearsing.”

  Saturday, 26 October 1850

  Too busy to write these last eight days. There has been much to do! The puffs about Pratty’s pantomime had to be readied for the newspapers. I trudged unceasingly all week from shop to sewing room, reassuring people and spurring them on in their creation of props and costumes. Of course the prompt script for Murder House also had to be resurrected from the bottom drawer of my desk, dusted off, and studied in preparation for a rehearsal next week.

  Still no believable word concerning Mr. Bancroft and Suzy Simpson. Mrs. Hayes told me that the wife of an actor-laddie friend thought she had seen them boarding a boat for Calais three days after they’d absconded from the theatre. Others conjecture that they are bound for America, where Mr. Bancroft feels he will easily become a star on the Broadway stage.

  Young Master West was sacked today without notice. The firing was not entirely unexpected – rumours have been circulating inside the theatre for some time now.

  I met the unfortunate young man as he was coming out of Mr. Wilton’s offi
ce. There had been a raising of voices in the minutes preceding his departure to which nobody in the theatre had been oblivious. Master West left the office weeping, which seemed an incongruous activity for so strapping a young man. His shoulders were heaving as he spoke to me, and the sob in his throat was audible. He was suitably embarrassed by his unmanly show of emotion and was not particularly interested in entering into a discussion of his problems.

  “My dear Master West,” I said. I wanted to be as supportive as possible. The young man has conducted himself with diligence in everything that has to do with being on stage. “Is anything the matter?”

  “My da’ will kill me!” he blurted, collapsing against me with all of his not inconsiderable weight. Even in an apartment full of daughters, I must confess that I have not been used to such a blatant and demonstrative display. I had no choice but to enfold the young man in my arms and to listen in earnest. “He’s always said I was a ne’er-do-well,” the young man sobbed, “and now I’ve proven him correct.”

  I patted him self-consciously on the back. “You must bear up now, Theo. I’m certain you’ll find gainful employment elsewhere.”

  “Yes, cutting fish in my da’s shop! If I don’t end up cutting my hand off first. That’s all I’m good for now.”

  “Nonsense,” I said, holding him at arm’s length. “Time will show that that is nonsense. You’ve had an apprenticeship here, and an apprenticeship at the New Albion must be worth something. I’m going to give you the name of the acting manager at the Surrey.”

  Master West’s demeanor brightened. “Would you do that for me, Mr. Phillips?”

  “They may be hiring now,” I continued. I knew that they were not, but a penny’s worth of hope is worth a pound in today’s economy. “Tell Mr. Mapplethorpe that Phillips sent you.”

  “I will do that,” the young man said with resolve. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Phillips.” It looked as though the youngster would again melt into a softer emotion. I was quick to take my hands off him.