New Albion (13 page)

Old Stoneface smiled, his long canine teeth protruding. “I know that you think I have taken leave of my senses,” he said, “but these are desperate times. I only ask that you help him in any way you can.”

Sunday, 10 November 1850

My first playwriting meeting with Colin Tyrone. The theatre being dark this evening, we were able to have the Green Room almost entirely to ourselves. The only intruders were the stage carpenters who were busy creating the Great Wall of China and the Palace of Wanky Twanky Fum but who interrupted our meeting, occasionally, to make a pot of tea. Mr. Tyrone sat slouched in his chair and stared at the floor through the first half of our meeting. “This is what Mr. Wilton wants, is it?” he kept saying. “For me to take the incoherent ramblings of a mad man and turn ‘em into a pantomime?”

“Apparently so,” I replied, thinking of the Sunday dinner I was missing in the company of my own beautiful children.

“Well then,” said the young man, waving at me with a gesture
of resignation.

“I can only tell you what I know of Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s usual methods.” I warmed my hands around a cup of tea and thought of the vicissitudes of my existence which had led me to this juncture. What business had I, a furniture-maker’s son, to deliver lectures on playwriting to an errant prigger? There was no way but forward. “He is fond of lifting his plots from other sources.” Luckily, I remembered an amusing story about Pratty’s exploits and one which might prove my thesis precisely. “Six months ago, he created a stir by taking the first number of
David Copperfield
and creating an entire melodrama based, purportedly, upon Dickens’ novel. The problem was that Dickens himself hadn’t completed the novel by that time, and nobody knew how the thing was going to end, probably not even Dickens. When the remaining numbers of the novel eventually appeared, it became clear that Pratty’s melodrama had no real connection with the novel. But we were the first theatre in London, by a few days, to open with a melodrama of that title, and when Mr. Dickens threatened a lawsuit, the attendance shot up.” So delicious was this tidbit, and my memory of it, that I could hardly contain my own mirth in the telling.

Mr. Tyrone did not, however, deign to smile. He sucked on his own rotten teeth for a moment. “So the bastard thieves his playwritin stories?”

“Well, I’m sure Mr. Farquhar Pratt would prefer the term ‘borrow’.” I straightened up in my chair and drank some of tea. “He also regularly finds his plots in newspapers, books of poetry, musical ballads, and the
Newgate Calendar
. Especially the
Newgate Calendar
.”

“Why especially that then?”

I could not restrain my own incredulity at Colin Tyrone’s naïve response. Had he no idea where in the world Providence had landed him? “Why, because we are situate here in Whitechapel. Who loves crime melodrama more than the denizens of Whitechapel?”

“I see.”

“But to the matter at hand,” I continued. “The panto is a particular beast. It might start out in the real world, but it doesn’t stay there long.”

“Kind of like old Wanky Twanky hisself,” Tyrone chuckled. “He starts out real, but he gets fanciful pretty goddamn quick.”

I saw no need to further malign Mr. Farquhar Pratt. “As an example, the initial scene might be about a father who refuses to allow his daughter to marry the young man she loves.”

“You can write plays about cranky old bastards like that?”

“But then a wizard will appear, disguised as a beggar,” I went on, trying to ignore Mr. Tyrone’s attempt at witticism. “He will ask for money and, when he doesn’t receive any, he will throw a magic powder in the air. And the scene will be transformed.”

“There’s many a beggar on these mean streets in London,” Tyrone replied, “but I’ve never seen a one bearin magic powder.”

“The wizard will transform the scene,” I continued, “to some exotic place – in this case to an exotic place in China, since that is where Mr. Farquhar Pratt has chosen to set his play. It will be a place inhabited by strange beings. Puss ’n Boots perhaps. Or Humpty Dumpty.”

“Childish that is,” was Mr. Tyrone’s judgement.

“Perhaps,” I replied, “but if it is done well, the audience will respond favourably. Both children and adults.”

“I don’t like to concarn myself with such tripe,” the young man opined.

“It’s a fanciful world, the world of the pantomime,” I admitted, “but it also gives the playwright license to prognosticate on current events.”

“Like what, fer instance?”

“The state of the economy. Mr. Paxton’s fine new edifice. Or the Eastern Counties Railway Station in Bishopsgate. It’s all grist for the mill.”

Mr. Tyrone peered at me quizzically. “So I can write about anything I like?”

“Practically anything,” I replied, “provided it is handled deftly. But it is best to write about what you know.”

Thursday, 14 November 1850

Mr. Tyrone arrived at the theatre today bearing a cheery aspect, a decided transformation from his habitual sullenness. He had his waistcoat slung over his shoulder in the manner of a swell. “I have written,” he said, “the farst scene of a pantomime. I think it as good as anythin yer man Shakespeare may have done.” He tossed a brown envelope on to my desk and sat expectantly on a nearby chair, waiting for me to read his magnum opus. Not wishing to antagonize the young scoundrel and hoping to avoid a beating similar to the one which had been visited upon the person of Mr. Farquhar Pratt, I desisted from my more immediate task of writing up a program of the next week’s entertainments and commenced reading:

Not a Very Merry Christmas

Or, the Servant Girl, the Horse Doctor, and the Bottle of Medicine

Scene One

(The setting is the Inns of Court. Jeremiah Chiselhurst is in the witness box, being questioned by Barrister McGuire.)

Barrister.
Tell us then, Mr. Chiselhurst, in your own words, how exactly you foully murdered the young servant girl, Martha Liverstock.

Jeremiah.
It weren’t murder, I tell ye. Have mercy on an old man whose spirit is already halfway in the grave beside poor Martha.

Barrister.
Why don’t you simply tell us how the young girl died then, Mr. Chiselhurst?

Jeremiah.
Poor Martha had been complaining of stomach pains all those two weeks before Christmas. Her situation had declined until she were near the door of Death. On
Christmas Eve, it were, Martha’s sister Emily came to see me. She had been given my name by a Great Aunt Twice Removed, whom I had cured of a bad case of leprosy. Jenny came asking for my aid. She said her dear sister was near death and that the doctors couldn’t help her and so it was she came to me, a humble horse doctor but one with a multitude of successful treatments attached to his name.

Barrister.
And how did you treat this innocent young girl, Mr. Jeremiah Chiselhurst? What medicines did you pour down her throat?

Jeremiah.
I looked her over well, sir, I always do that with the animals I treat. I checked her joints for inflammation, noticed some swelling near her belly and a gurgling sound when I pressed on her intestines. I deduced that it were a bad case of food poisoning, brought on by poor Martha’s visit to the Britannia Saloon, and her procurement of food there, three nights previous. And so I gave her two grains of arsenic to allow her to shit the thing out.

Barrister.
Two grains of arsenic. There you have the admission of guilt, Your Honour. Two grains of arsenic is enough to kill a horse.

Chiselhurst.
That ain’t so, sir. I commonly feeds my horses five grains of arsenic for stomach problems and such. It gives them the heaves, but other than that no harm done.

Barrister.
And how did poor Martha Liverstock react once you had administered two grains of arsenic to her, Mr. Chiselhurst?

Chiselhurst.
She had a spasm and promptly died.

Barrister.
Had a spasm and promptly died?

Chiselhurst.
Yes, sir. Within five minutes, I would say. (Breaking down.) I’m ashamed of it now, I am. If it were me in the grave instead of the poor innocent, I’d be much happier.

Barrister.
The cause of death went unnoticed for some time. How was it detected that you had killed the young girl?

Chiselhurst.
Poor Martha’s sister Emily got a writ of habeas corpus, or some such writ, from the local magistrate. They had some ruffians go out to the cemetery one night and dig Poor Martha up.

Barrister.
Yes. Yes, and then they took her innocent body to a surgeon,
didn’t they? And the surgeon pronounced it death by arsenic poisoning.
Didn’t he? Didn’t he?

Chiselhurst.
Yes! Yes! I am the guilty one. I am he who has taken the life of the poor innocent! Have me transported to the hottest hell Van Dieman’s Land can offer. Or have me hung! Hung from a Newgate gibbet. Please end the sufferings of a poor old Horse Doctor who never meant no harm but only administered the medicines which had made other beings well.

Judge.
Enough. I’ve heard enough. I sentence you, Mr. Jeremiah Chiselhurst, to be hung by the neck until you are dead. (hitting gavel on table). Next case!

(Before the Judge can say another word, a Chinaman enters.)

Judge.
What business do you have with this court, sir?

Chinaman.
Oh, very funny business.

Judge.
Guard!

(A Guard enters and attempts to apprehend the Chinaman.)

Chinaman.
Hands off! Hands off!

Guard.
Come here, you slippery Chinaman!

Chinaman.
Then you leave me no choice!

(The Chinaman throws yellow powder in the air, and the scene transforms.)

Having read this work of genius, I paused and reflected upon how I might respond to its author. He gazed at me with much force, and so I pretended to reread the document. I could smell Mr. Tyrone’s oniony breath even from where he was sitting, an adamant reminder that he was still there and would not move until I had offered him an appraisal of his manuscript. Finally, I could bear no more. I looked up at Colin Tyrone and said, “Well. This is quite remarkable. Where did you first hear of this story?”

“In the
Newgate Calendar
,” he said, bluntly. “Right there before my eyes. You told me to read the
Calendar
and so I did. I was lookin fer a Christmas story, and this one popped out at me like a purse halfway out of a dandy’s waistcoat.” His smile was that of a prigger who had conned a tourist out of a great sum of money.

I looked again at the last page of his manuscript, hoping to find something there that was praiseworthy. “Em, I did mention the
Newgate Calendar
,” I admitted, “but do you really think that it’s the proper place to find a Christmas panto?”

“It’s hexcellent, though, ain’t it?” was the young man’s ingen
uous reply. “You told me to write what I know.”

“Excellent?” I repeated. On Judgement Day, I shall have to account for my lack of candor. “Yes, it’s very good. But do you not think that it’s a trifle dark for a Christmas play? With an aged man being sentenced to death and all?”

“Are you sayin it’s not hexcellent?” Mr. Tyrone leaned forward in his chair and closed his fists in front of him until his knuckles were white.

“No,” I said hastily. “It’s very good. Very good. I only wish I could have read the rest of it.”

“There is no rest of it,” the young man said, archly. “I figger I’ll just leave it to the actors to muss about and do the funny.”

“You want them to improvise the rest of the play?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

Mr. Tyrone’s eyes were positively fierce now. “Why the divil not?”

Having no desire to further incur Mr. Tyrone’s wrath, I directed him to go and see Mr. Wilton. “I am certain,” I said, “that he will be able to provide you with some advice as to how you might improve this already inestimable piece of literature.”

Unceremoniously grabbing his prized manuscript out of my hands, Mr. Tyrone stalked off in the direction of Mr. Wilton’s office. I breathed a palliative sigh and resumed the writing up of next week’s program.

Tuesday, 19 November 1850

This morning, Mr. Wilton and I met at the backstage entrance of the theatre on our way into the building. We stood in the cold November wind and spoke for a moment. “I've read Mr. Tyrone’s manuscript,” said Old Stoneface, looking as barren under his top hat as the trees in Hyde Park at this time of year. “Do you think there’s any hope?” He stamped his leather soles ardently on the cobblestones in an effort to drive the cold out of his feet.

I hesitated for a moment, not wishing to offend the proprietor of the theatre in which I was gainfully employed. "If you’re talking about the Christmas pantomime,” I said, “then I must tell you that I feel the young man cannot do a credible job of it in the time allotted.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Wilton, blowing on his fingers. “Yes. I have to agree with you.” He looked immensely sad and beaten for a moment, and then miraculously he began to laugh. It was a hearty laugh from somewhere deep in his belly.
“The Servant Girl, the Horse Doctor, and the Bottle of Medicine!”
he managed to articulate through the guffaws. “Not exactly the potion needed to induce rollicking fits of laughter in a Christmas audience, is it?” Tears were streaming down his cheeks, already reddened by the autumn chill. “And his deathless line – ‘She had a spasm and promptly died.’ There wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house, would there?”