New Albion (17 page)

“It was a condition of his employment here.” Mr. Wilton’s mutton-chopped jowls were shaking horrendously; I doubt he had ever experienced as much terror while on duty in Australia. “We will have to proceed,” he hissed. “Make the announcement, Mr. Phillips. We’ll offer them free passes.”

Manning had already placed the pickling crock at centre stage, and the curtain was rising. The usually vociferous audience was hushed. With one last terrified glance at Mr. Wilton, I proceeded on to the stage. My legs felt like they were made of
bamboo, and I teetered about like a juggler on stilts. The assem
bled multitude regarded me expectantly. “Due to circumstances beyond our control,” I began, my voice sounding even more high-pitched and nasal in my own ears than usual, “the world famous contortionist, Mr. Enoch Wolsey, is not able to be with us tonight.” There was a momentary hush, as though the audience was thinking that this was somehow a prelude to Mr. Wolsey’s act, and then a few boos, a few hisses. “However,” I continued, “the management has agreed to issue free passes to tomorrow night’s performances.” The booing ceased. “At which time Mr. Wolsey has promised to contort himself not into a two-gallon pickling crock but into a two-quart sealer.” Wracked with nerves as I was, I hardly recognized the ludicrous nature of that statement. I would have willingly suspended my disbelief at the thought of his fitting himself into a sardine tin.

The proferring of free passes brought order to the proceedings,
as did the promise of an even greater feat of contortionism than had earlier been advertised. The audience sat through the burletta and even reacted with good humour. They vacated the theatre, without incident, at ten-thirty.

Friday, 6 December 1850

I overheard Mr. Farquhar Pratt offering the fruits of his wisdom to Mr. Tyrone again this morning. Pratty’s eyes were glistening. He appeared somewhat revitalized, despite the gauntness of his frame, which was evident even under his threadbare waistcoat and his yellowing collarless shirt. Ignoring the steaming cup of tea that was on the table in front of him, Pratty fairly hissed at Mr. Tyrone, “You say you want to be a playwright. Anybody can be a playwright. But I want you to become a great playwright.”

Colin Tyrone was slouched in his chair, across the table from Mr. Farquhar Pratt. His face was adorned with the habitual smirk. “I cannot read this Wooly Shakespeare,” he said. “It’s malarkey. Written by a mad man.”

Momentarily deflated, Mr. Farquhar Pratt paused to catch his breath. “He is the greatest playwright who ever raised a quill.”

“Well, I cannot read him.”

“You must try, Colin,” Pratty exhorted, “you must give it your all if you are serious about this profession.”

* * *

Enoch Wolsey did not make
an appearance in the Green Room this afternoon, which was probably for the best considering the insalubrious effect he seems to be having upon Mr. Hicks. Apparently Mr. Wilton had communicated with Mr. Wolsey by means of courier at ten o’clock this morning and was assured by return message that Mr. Wolsey would appear at the theatre this evening. I shuddered to think how he would make good his promise to fit himself into a two-quart sealer, but I decided to let Enoch Wolsey worry about his own promises.

At six-thirty, when Mr. Wolsey still had not graced the theatre
with his presence, Mr. Wilton dispatched George Simpson, who was not performing this evening, to take a hansom cab to Mr. Wolsey’s lodgings and to return with the contortionist in short order. Mr. Simpson returned at seven-thirty. Breathlessly, he told us that he had not met with Enoch Wolsey but rather with his landlord, who explained that Mr. Wolsey had absconded that very afternoon and had not paid his rent and that, for all he knew, the man was now in a shipyard in Liverpool and on his way to America.

Mr. Wilton sat down in my chair at the Stage Manager’s desk when he heard this news. He rubbed his knotty hands vigorously across his face for a moment. “The blackguard has deserted,” he said finally. “Prepare for the worst, Phillips.”

I was indeed prepared for the worst, but at quarter after eight a note from Mr. Wolsey arrived at the theatre by means of a courier. Mr. Hardacre sensed that this
would not contain good news and simply slipped the envelope on to my desk as I was eyeing the actors, who did not command the earnest good will of the spectators on this particular evening, and weighing how I would orate to the spectators in a few minutes’ time. When I noticed the envelope, I turned to see where Hardacre was. He had disappeared, padded off to his narrow domain down the stairs, no doubt to catch up on his sleep.

Opening the envelope as if it were a nest full of rats, I picked at its contents and read: “Dear Sirs. Unable to discharge my duties this evening. Be advised that I will appear without fail tomorrow night and that I will so contort myself as to fit my entire body, head, legs, and torso, into a dimpled pint beer glass. Yours faithfully, Enoch Wolsey.” The unmitigated, unrepentant scoundrel! The bold-faced, bobtailed liar!

I did not even bother to show the note to Mr. Wilton, who was by that time coming down the stairs from his office on the outside chance that Mr. Wolsey had indeed made an appearance. “No sight of him?” Mr. Wilton asked me soberly.

“None, sir,” I said, slipping the envelope into my trouser pocket. “Shall I make the announcement?”

“Yes, thank you, Phillips.”

The curtain came down on
David Hunt
and rose again on a two-quart sealer at centre on an otherwise barren stage. I steeled myself and strode on to the stage in Enoch Wolsey’s stead. Only then did I realize that the theatre was jammed to the rafters, filled with patrons who had come in good faith to witness the amazing spectacle. Before I could speak, I heard someone at the back of the stalls complain, “Not this bloke again.”

Inhaling deeply in order to avoid fainting, I began. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great remorse that I stand before you this evening to reveal a hoax. Not only has Mr. Enoch Wolsey perpetrated a hoax upon the administration of this theatre, he
has also, sadly, succeeded in perpetrating a hoax upon our val
ued patrons.”

There were shouts of “Here, you’ve got our money then, haven’t you?” and “Who’s hoaxing who, then?” Some of the patrons at the back of the gallery were on their feet.

I continued to speak; I was speaking for my life and for the life of the theatre. “Please be assured that the full price of your admission will be refunded at the ticket window on your way out of the theatre.”

“Blackguard!” came the response from one side of the auditorium. “Liar!” came the echo from up in the galleries. These verbal assaults were followed by the hurling of various projectiles in my direction.

A ripe apple narrowly missed my head, splattering on the stage floor behind me. Soon a veritable fusillade of consumables materialized from both galleries, causing me to take cover against the proscenium arch.

“Call the police!” Mr. Wilton shouted down the stairs to Mr. Hardacre.

“Maurice?” Mr. Hardacre shouted back. “Maurice who?”

Missiles of a more sinister and potentially harmful nature began to arrive on the stage. From my vantage point behind the arch, I saw at least six beer glasses smash on the stage floor. Somebody threw a knife, which stuck in the boards at a high angle. It must have been thrown from the upper gallery. Inexplicably, a cold leg of mutton also clattered across the stage floor, coming to its final resting point against the rear wall.

Having witnessed the unfolding spectacle from the wings, Neville Watts decided to take matters into his own hands. He
walked confidently to centre stage, and the hurtling of projectiles
seemed to cease momentarily. He commenced his finger-wagging oration. “Is this what the national drama has come to?” he declared. “Audiences as randy and disrespectful as bear-baiters of the Elizabethan era –”

He was unable to finish because someone in the stalls screeched “Ponce! Aristocrat!” and a general pelting of tomatoes and half-eaten oranges ensued. Mr. Watts endeavored to make his way again to the safety of the wings, but the blizzard of incoming fruit and vegetables was so ferocious that he seemed to be imitating one of Captain Franklin’s men walking against a subarctic blizzard down the entire coast of Labrador. So heavy was the fusillade that I marveled how he could remain in an upright position. Risking his own wellbeing, Mr. Hicks waded
out on to the stage, flung his wounded comrade over his shoul
der and carried Neville Watts off the stage and all the way down to the dressing room, where both men revived their spirits with a ration of Jamaican rum.

Two Peelers arrived in short order – they are never far from this theatre on performance evenings – and marched through the auditorium to the lip of the stage. The audience grew curiously silent as one of the policemen, a large man, raised his hand. Perhaps the majority of those in attendance had had dealings with the Peelers in the recent past and did not relish the prospect of further acquaintanceship. The large policeman spoke. “Time to break it up, good ladies and gentlemen” he said, in a voice low
and confident. “Time to break it up and all go home.” His partner
merely regarded the spectators through small piggish eyes. That two police officers, two men who possessed no more strength or intellect than many of the spectators they were facing down, could so easily quash a disturbance of seven hundred!

The rioters began to disperse, murmuring angrily to each other. One man, a middle-aged fellow wearing the grimy hat of a dock worker, stood at the edge of the upper gallery and crowed: “This ain’t over yet! You’ve swindled us, and we by Gawd will have our revenge.”

“Yes, yes,” said the large police officer in a low voice. “Time to go home now, sir, and be careful that you don’t fall down upon the uneven cobble stones on your way there.”

I do not know what trouble Mrs. Landover encountered at the ticket window at the front of the theatre as she was refunding money to the unwashed lot of them, but I do know that they were queued around the block until eleven-thirty in the evening.

The actors had, of course, retired to their dressing rooms by this time. I was standing in the backstage area conferring with Mr. Wilton when Fanny Hardwick ran up the stairs. “The ladies’ dressing room has been robbed,” she said, her voice aquiver.

Mr. Wilton and I immediately followed Fanny back downstairs to the dressing room. The other actresses were frantic, rifling through their dress pockets and make-up boxes in the hopes of relocating their valuables. “Didn’t you leave your valuables in Mr. Phillips’s valuables box before the performance tonight?” Mr. Wilton inquired.

“Some of the ladies prefer to hide their valuables in the dress
ing room,” Fanny said. “There’s never been a robbery before.”

Mr. Wilton sighed. “Well, Mr. Phillips, call back the police officers.”

After the officers had made their fairly cursory investigation, it was determined that a rioter must somehow or other have gained access to the backstage area and liberated the ladies’
porte-monnaies
. Old Hardacre the doorman claimed to have neither seen nor heard any unauthorized personnel backstage, but Hardacre is both deaf and a notorious sleeper-on-the-job. Still, it is very odd that none of the other theatre personnel saw an intruder, not me, not the actors and actresses, not the stage hands, who have a propensity for showing up anywhere in the theatre at any time.

Fanny Hardwick lost two pounds ten in bank notes. Mrs. Toffat could not recollect what amount of money had been in her
porte-monnaie
, but she reckoned that it was not much. Mrs. Wilton was relieved of an opal necklace, which she said had only nostalgic value.

London is not as it was, even fourteen years ago when I first arrived to whip Mr. Wilton’s theatre into some measure of financial stability. It seems to me a heartless act to break into a ladies’ dressing room in a minor theatre and to rob them of their week’s pay, especially as these women work so hard and are remunerated so poorly. One would not have witnessed such a cowardly act fourteen years ago. It is a hard thing to witness it now.

I was relieved when the ladies’ escorts arrived to see them safely home. The streets are not safe tonight. I was even relieved when Fanny Hardwick’s aristocratic young gentleman, decked out in his fine black frock coat and beaver hat, was waiting at the stage door.

* Chapter Eleven *

Monday, 9 December 1850

Having received the fourth act
of Ned Farquhar Pratt’s pantomime only this morning, the leading actors in the spectacle began to rehearse today. The actors were off-book for the first three acts, and the rehearsal proceeded apace for a full two hours,
with Pratty offering advice and me positioning the actors and setting up the blocking. Mr. Watts will play Wanky Twanky Fum in this production, and after the transformation scene will become Fearsome O’Connor, leader of the Physical Force people and orator to the masses. Mr. Hicks has had to settle for the Genie, who will later become Wilcox of the Moral Force Chartists.

The actors soon bogged down over the question of how the Needles and Pins should themselves be represented, and an offhand remark by George Simpson about how there were no real precedents in the playing of Rust led the actors to divest themselves of their manuscripts and to begin the discussion in earnest. Soon they had draped their legs over the front of the stage and were speaking of their concerns. “It is mightily difficult,” began Neville Watts, who had been looking for a way to broach the subject of the play’s lack of completion, “to ascertain anything about the play until the entire script is in the actors’ hands. When might we expect that to happen, Mr. Farquhar Pratt?”