New Albion (12 page)

There was a timid smattering of applause, led by Mrs. Wilton, and then Mr. Hicks rose to speak, stepping gingerly into the centre of the room like a deck-hand on an unquiet sea. “I too have been rash and impertinent, I fear. My respect for Mr. Watts is unparalleled; I hold him in the highest esteem. He has single-handedly infused our little company with the subtleties of the most moderne approach to acting. His tour of duty with Macready, which I have not seen but which I have never tired of hearing about, is I’m sure of the highest order.” There
was spontaneous applause from several of Mr. Hicks’ supporters. “I count it a great honour to appear on the same bill with him –
whether in a larger part or a smaller one – and in future I promise to lay hold of any lubber who says otherwise. Three huzzahs for the good Mr. Watts!”

Led by Mr. Hicks, the assembled company loudly cheered Neville Watts, who blushed eloquently and bowed his head in appreciation. Mr. Wilton came forward again and clasped the hands of his two leading men. He then raised their arms in the air in the manner of a referee in a boxing contest. Neville Watts and Mr. Hicks beamed at each other, at Mr. Wilton, at all of us present.

Equilibrium has been reached again, at least with the acting company on the good ship Albion. We have only Eliza to worry about now and, of course, Mr. Farquhar Pratt. Mr. Wilton has asked me to find a new juvenile lead to replace young Master West at my earliest convenience, and I have made inquiries at the Britannia and the Vic. There has been no hint from Old Stoneface as to how and when Bancroft and Suzy Simpson might be replaced, but I’m sure that it won’t be long before the New Albion is once again hiring. I begin to suspect that no theatre, and no worthwhile art, is created in a state of pristine wholeness; there must be unhappiness and dissatisfaction for creation to take place. There must be the occasional storm on the briny sea. Nothing worthwhile is ever achieved without pain and blood.

* Chapter Eight *

Sunday, 3 November 1850

I was walking with Sophie
this morning, as is our habit on Sundays. Our journey took us down Chancery Lane for a view of the Inns of Court and, of course, the mighty St. Paul’s. Along the way, we happened upon a penny gaff and decided to slum it for an hour.

The gaff was staged in the back room of an old hall down a narrow alley. The lessee of that glorious venue stood by the makeshift stage and called out the names of the plays as each of them was about to be staged. We saw an abridged version of
Dick Turpin’s Ride
, Shakespeare’s Scottish play, and
Jack Sheppard
, all in the space of one hour. Each “play” lasted about twenty minutes, and then the lessee would call time, wherever in the script the actors managed to be, no doubt to maximize the evening’s revenues.

Between the Scottish play and
Jack Sheppard
, a brief interlude was performed, consisting of a sort of Punch and Judy show with real actors. Sophie and I were roundly dismissive of this entertainment until I noticed that one of the actors was our Mr. Levy. He observed me, as well, from the stage as he was being beaten about the head by a rough lummox girded in the weeds of an elderly widow. He gave no sign of recognizing me, however, and I thought it best not to nip around to the backstage after the performance in order to congratulate him, as is the way with theatrical folk.

Wednesday, 6 November 1850

I do hope that my future self will excuse the occasional lapse in my keeping of this journal. It is not always easy to find a spare moment in each day in which to write.

I’ve busied myself, of late, with finding a replacement for young Master West who, I am happy to report, was hired by the Surrey Coalhole to play juvenile lead roles. I’m sure he will learn there everything he needs to know about nautical melodramas, dancing hornpipes, and speaking like a pirate.

One would think that it would be easy to find a studious apprentice in under-employed London, but I believe that prospective candidates fear the same opprobrium I suffered when I first entered the theatre. My middle-class parents were aghast at the announcement that I was planning to run off and play Tyburn Tom on the Castle-Barnhard-Penrith circuit. My brother threatened to disown me. “Think what you’re doing,” he shouted at me over the dinner table, “leaving the prospect of steady employment and wealth in a business that our father worked hard to create.”

At any rate, it has not been easy to find a young actor to join our little band of thespians. Perhaps an advertisement in
The Theatrical Journal and Gentlemen’s Guide
will be the next step.

A letter arrived this afternoon from my brother in Manchester, written in his business-like hand on business-like stationary. “It is time to let bygones be bygones,” he writes. “You are still part of this family. You may return to it if you wish and take your rightful place in the family business. We are going great guns, but we do long to see you again.”

I remember when I was first hired to stage manage at the New Albion. Mr. Hicks was then in his heyday, having had some minor successes playing opposite T. P. Cooke at the Coalhole and then as lead actor at the New Albion. He was quite full of himself, and he lost no opportunity to face me down over matters of staging which were clearly within my purview. Mr. Wilton was more involved in the day-to-day running of the theatre than he is today, and he happened to witness one of our disagreements on the stage floor.

When the rehearsal ended that day, Mr. Wilton called me up to his office. “Who are your parents?” he demanded.

“They own an upholstery business in Manchester, sir,” I said meekly.

“And do they put up with insolence on the factory floor?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“And neither should you.” He did not say any more, and he did not need to.

At the next rehearsal, when Mr. Hicks contradicted me about a move upstage away from the footlights, I told him, “That is how I want it, Mr. Hicks, and that is how it is going to be.”

Mr. Hicks squared off with me then, assuming a Jack Tar stance, his two feet apart as though he were standing on the deck of a ship as it tossed in the North Sea. “Is that so?” he growled. He was a thicker and a heavier man than I back then, as he is now.

Looking him in the eyes, I said, “That is so.”

After a tense moment, his lips curled into a smile. “Well, you have some bone in yer nose then, after all,” he said. I’ve never had another unhappy moment with Mr. Hicks from that day forth. And I’ve always been thankful to Mr. Wilton for the lesson he taught me.

I sometimes marvel at how Mr. Wilton has been able to succeed at so many disparate ventures. I’m told that he was pensioned from the army at the age of thirty and that he’d used his meager savings to start a haberdashery shop in Newcastle. Building upon that success, he’d gotten involved in the import of beaver hats from North America and, later, in textile mills in the midlands. And then he owned a minor theatre in the Capitol.

Some men are successful by sheer force of will. They are confident. They just do while others think of doing. Mr. Wilton is one of those men.

Friday, 8 November 1850

Still no sign of Mr. Farquhar Pratt or of his pantomime. I am given to understand, by Mr. Granville, that the old stock playwright has been at rest in his flat in Bethnal Green and that he is still quite weak and also quite embarrassed over his tour de force performance in the theatre auditorium more than two weeks ago. Apparently, his sanity has returned, compliments of all-healing sleep and the tender care of his good wife.

Mr. Wilton called me into his office this morning. He was not industriously involved with paperwork, as he usually is when I enter his domain. He seemed quite restive. His eyes were alive and fiery, and his gnarled fingers drummed impatiently on the large desk in front of him. “Have the puffs gone out on Pratt’s pantomime?” he inquired.

I informed him that I had sent the puffs to the newspapers a week ago Monday. “Do you mind reading me what you wrote, then, Mr. Phillips?”

Knowing that Pratty is likely to be indisposed for some time to come, I surmised that Mr. Wilton was beginning to fidget about the creation of the pantomime. And rightfully so. Rehearsals are scheduled to begin in three weeks’ time. Retrieving
a tattered article of paper from my satchel, I commenced reading
aloud:

YOYAYEYAYOMAYITYATCHU!!!!

OR; The Battle of Needles and Pins!!

The Palace of Wanky Twanky Fum

Forbidden Love of Chin Chan Chow and Noko

Insult of the Spirit of Chaos

Stupendous Transformation Scene!!!

The Kingdom of Needles and Pins!

The Enemy Rust!

MR. WATTS AS WANKY TWANKY FUM

THE MARVELOUS MR. HICKS AS THE SPIRIT

THE FIRST TIME ON ANY STAGE EVER

MR. FARQUHAR PRATT’S AWE-INSPIRING WORK.

SARA WILTON AS THE EMPRESS OF CHINA

THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA!

All New Costumes!

No Reduced Prices at the Half!

See the Pantomime Everybody Has Been Talking About.

A Hundred Years Ahead of Its Time!

WANKY TWANKY FUM!!!

Upon finishing my recital, I looked up and saw Old Stoneface slumped in his leather armchair. He was frowning and gazing at the wall behind me, as though he were assessing an enemy formation on some far-off battlefield. The skin on his face had turned ruddy. The blood rises easily in old army men; I have observed it with other veterans, as well. Venturing to guess what had displeased him, I remarked that I didn’t know quite what to write about the Parisian Phenomenon since Pratty had made it clear at the company meeting that there was to be no dancing in this pantomime.

“Neither here nor there,” Mr. Wilton growled. “It is probably better that the Parisian Phenomenon does not dance.” He leaned forward impulsively, picked up a pencil from his desk and began doodling on a notepad.

“Is there something I could help you with?” I inquired.

Mr. Wilton seemed at a loss for words for some time. He looked like a man who had swallowed an abundance of lemon juice. Then he said, “I only wish the damned puff had not gone out. It spells the whole thing out fairly clearly.”

“Did I commit an error of judgment?”

“No, no, it isn’t that,” Mr. Wilton blurted, tossing his pencil on to the desk. “You wrote exactly what Pratt had given us to believe would be the tenor of his pantomime. I only worry that he will not be able to deliver on his promise.”

“Yes, it is cause for concern,” I admitted. I was all out of solutions, and the problem of the pantomime remained before us like a lingering enormity.

Glancing sharply in my direction, Mr. Wilton said, “Yes. Yes, it is, Phillips, absolutely. I had thought to insert last year’s pantomime, under a new title, but that action no longer seems possible. For one thing, your puff, which has already been published, suggests an oriental kingdom and a battle between Needles and Pins. Last year’s
Mother Goose
could never be altered so drastically as to fill the bill.”

I nodded, I hope supportively. “Also, Mrs. Hayes has begun to create the costumes. And she tells me that the harlequinade costumes were in such disrepair after last summer’s flooding in the wardrobe shed that she’d had to throw most of them out. It would take her at least a month to recreate those costumes.” I had begun to fidget too; Mr. Wilton’s nervousness over the whole business was contagious.

He extricated himself from the leather chair, went and gazed out the window for a long moment. “Yes, yes, it would be utterly
impossible at this juncture. What is your recommendation,
then, Mr. Phillips?”

He had caught me entirely off guard. “My – my recommendation?” I stammered.

“Yes. Regarding Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s illness and the fate of this pantomime.” He peered at me expectantly.

Having rarely been asked my opinion before, I had gotten into the habit of not having one. “Well,” I said, “I for one have been hoping for Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s miraculous recovery.”

Mr. Wilton gazed at me for a good long time. His eyes narrowed as though he were squinting into the sun. I could not decipher whether he thought me a fool or a towering intellect. “Let me ask you this, then,” he said, with a resolve that made it clear he had exhausted all other avenues. “Do you think that Colin Tyrone might be capable of finishing what Pratt has started?” Mr. Wilton must have sensed my initial negativity or, at the very least, remembered my past pronouncements upon Mr. Tyrone’s literary acumen, because he charged onward before I could speak. “I know I have intimated to you on other occasions that I would not resort to this most desperate measure, Phillips, but these are desperate times.”

In an attempt to shield my all-consuming disbelief at what he had said, I responded that I had no idea of what Mr. Tyrone was capable.

“Perhaps then,” Mr. Wilton said, “you would find it in your heart to give him the benefit of your wisdom.” I must have appeared dumbfounded because Mr. Wilton thought it necessary to clarify what he meant. “Give him a few hints, you know, and set him on his way.”

I was taken aback. “But I am not a dramatist,” I said, squirming in my chair.