New Albion (9 page)

There was a brief pause, and then Mr. Wilton spoke in low measured tones. “Very well, then,” he said to me. “Call Pratt back in.”

Pratty was nearly down the stairs and out the stage door by the time I tracked him down. Breathlessly, I told him that Mr. Wilton had had a change of heart.

“A change of heart?” he replied. “Assuming Stoneface has a heart at all!”

“He would like to speak to you again,” I said.

Pratty looked me in the eye. “Do you think that insults roll off my back like water? I will not attend him in his office again.”

“He had no intention of insulting you, Mr. Farquhar Pratt,” I responded. “What was said was said in the heat of the moment. On both sides.”

It took some doing, but at last I was able to persuade Mr. Farquhar Pratt to relent in his desire to leave the theatre forever. We trudged in silence back up the creaky stair
case to Mr. Wilton’s office. Mr. Wilton and young Tyrone were sitting in exactly the same positions in which I had left them; it was as if they had created a stage tableau. Mr. Wilton’s face was white as a new tombstone.

There was a silence, and then Mr. Wilton spoke. “I will reinstate you, Mr. Farquhar Pratt. On the condition that you will agree to write the pantomime and that you will be faithful, from now on, to the schedule which Phillips has put before you.”

It was Pratty’s turn to be haughty. He stood up straight. I could almost hear his spine cracking. “What of my fee?” he said, resolutely.

“Your fee?” Mr. Wilton said.

“Yes.”

The blank expression on Mr. Wilton’s face intimated that Mr. Farquhar Pratt had just been talking about something far beyond his comprehension or that there was some other enormity which had disrupted his focus. “Why, your fee is three pounds per play. Your fee was in fact raised to three pounds a month ago, sir, and three pounds will continue to be your fee for the foreseeable future.”

Pratty’s face was that of a pale grey bulldog. “The pantomime, as you have maintained, is a veritable pot of gold. I see no reason why I, as stock playwright for this theatre, should not share in the wealth produced. In addition to that,” Mr. Farquhar Pratt added, with a withering glance at Mr. Tyrone, “I now have the responsibility of educating my asinine friend here.”

The apprentice leaned forward in his chair. “What’s he mean by tha?” he inquired. “Is it a good thing he’s accusin me of?” He eyed Pratty as a stray dog eyes a rabbit.

“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 disdain
ful 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 whom 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.