The Newgate Jig (11 page)

My
friend Trim had also been brought round, and with a little persuasion had
agreed to include noble rather than villainous dogs in his extravaganza,
though I think it took our good friend Will Lovegrove an entire evening of
flattery and attention to the bottle to achieve this. Now he is a man whose
hand I am happy to shake every time I see him! And I am glad to say that I saw
him more often these days, and not just of a night in a fuggy room at the
Cheshire Cheese, for he took to joining Trim and me at Garraway's for breakfast
before rehearsals. Happy days indeed!

However,
I could not forget the unpleasantness of the Nasty Man, and I wondered too
about the boy, and why he returned Trim's precious package when he might simply
have tossed it upon a dust-heap. And at night, when I was alone in my room, I
thought about that generous action and how it had put me in the Nasty Man's
eye, and I sometimes wished the boy had not been so kind and had consigned
Trim's scribblings to the fire. But that was an uncharitable thought.

One morning, we were strolling to the Pavilion,
Trimmer,

Lovegrove
and I, after a hearty breakfast at Garraway's (courtesy of Trim, who had just
sold another blood-curdler to Messrs Barnard, but told us he had promises - 'More
like agreements and memoranda, no less!' - from houses of even greater note).
The extravaganza was almost complete, but only after many frustrating weeks of
amendments and additions, and so many extra scenes appearing - and
disappearing - every day, that I was completely mystified! Only last week, Mr
Carrier announced that he had secured the services of Mons. Gouffe, the
man-monkey, for whom poor Trim was obliged to invent what he called 'casual
business' at a moment's notice. (Of course, we have not yet seen Mons. Gouffe,
though a quantity of black ink has been used in 'puffing him' from here to
Hackney.) Poor Trim was at his wits' end and swore that he would never again
attempt an extravaganza and, indeed, would rather compose any number of
Little Jack Homers
or
Old Mother Hubbards
than invent
another 'new and original' Christmas entertainment.

But
that is the world of the stage. For my part, I attended the Pavilion when
summoned; I put my boys carefully through their new pieces and even added a few
novelties; I took my instructions carefully, and looked forward (with that hope
and anticipation which so many theatricals embrace) to the multiplication of
good fortune. 'How we apples swim, quoth the horse turd!', as Moses Dann, the
Boneless Man, was fond of saying. A vulgar expression, but it always made me
smile, especially when Dann whispered it in that wheezy, thin voice and
clattered his teeth and put his bony hand upon his bony hip. But he was right.
How very unexpected and delightful was my little success!

This morning, Mr Carrier called us up for a 'final
reading' of
Elenore
and we were assembled on the Pavilion stage early,
heads down and bowling along for, despite Trim's claims that it was a 'serious
piece of dramatic writing', there was not so much dialogue, and Mr Carrier, who
was 'reading in the business' and describing everything that happened, had
much the largest part. There were but four pages or so to go before the
Transformation Scene (which, much to Trim's disgust, Mr Carrier has insisted
upon) and he was steadily steering the pirate crew to whoops of triumph as they
captured the slave boat, claimed the treasure, released the captives, and the
hero, Redland Strongarm, the handsome pirate (ably and heroically read by
Will), was reunited with Susan Goodchild (Miss Bella Jacques), the virtuous
daughter of Dairyman Goodchild, but also cunningly disguised as the female
pirate, Elenore.

'Ho,'
cried Susan, 'I am discovered. Shall I surrender or stand and fight? What shall
I do? Where shall I fly? All around me is terror and distraction!'

'Destruction,'
murmured Trim, who is possessive of his words.

'Ho,
how I wish my dear James was here! Then I would share with him my dreadful
secret! I would reveal the awful truth! He loves me, Susan Goodchild, sweet and
chaste. But will he still love me when he learns that I am Elenora, Pirate
Queen of the High Seas and Mistress of the Hisp ... Hisp ...'

'Hispaniola,'
put in Trim. 'And you are Elenore,
not
Elenora.'

Miss
Jacques (pronounced 'Jay-cwees') bristled under his corrections, and sucked in
her cheeks so that her breath whistled through the gaps in her teeth. She was
a fair actress, but a poor reader. To see her fixed upon her cue book, her fingers
pressing hard upon each word as if to force it off the page, was agony for all
concerned. Usually she had Mrs Crockett at her elbow, a grey and mouldering
lady who, according to Mr Lombard, had in her day been the toast of the Lane
and the Wells, but now toasted herself nightly in cheap gin, and suffered the
indignity of being a Boswell to Miss Jacques' unworthy Johnson. So Mrs Crockett
it was who softly murmured the words into her ear and helped her con the
lines, and suffered, for her pains, the many indignities Miss Jacques heaped
upon her. But Mrs Crockett was indisposed today, and our leading lady was
forced to shift for herself. She ignored the author and turned her complaints
upon the manager.

'I
must protest, Mr Carrier, about the quality of the copying.'

At
which Mr Pocock's head shot up from his little table: he is the copyist
(amongst his many other duties).

'It
is always the same,' she thundered on, her voice rising with every syllable,
'perfectly h'awful! How I am supposed to read this wonderful drama proper is
beyond myself!'

She smiled brilliantly at Trim.

I
was thankful that Miss Jacques turned her nose up at me entirely, and did not
even notice my dogs. For to be within her eye's orbit was to risk being
battered about by one of her dramatic storms, and when she sat like a duchess,
with a mantle around her shoulders and a ridiculous feather bobbing in her
hat, glaring at everyone - except Trim, of course - she was difficult to sail
around. Only Mr Carrier had the skill to chart that particular course.

'I
will have Mr Pocock attend to it, Bella,' he returned, mildly, whilst the man
in question continued to fix her with a very hostile gaze. 'Let us please
continue to the end of the scene - and the end of the drama. And then we might
all take care of our other business.'

There
were murmurs of agreement, for the dinner-time bell was ringing at the Bell and
Leper, in harmony with the collective belly rumbles upon the stage. Miss
Jacques settled herself, and out came the gloved forefinger to find its place
upon the page.

'Ho,
James! My love! My sweet James! Would he not clasp me in his strong arms! Would
he not fight them pirates!'

'Ah,
Susan! My pirate sweetheart! He
is
here!' cried Will, giving the
words his very best heroic emphasis. Redland Strongarm is, as everyone knows,
none other than James Moreland, the lover of Susan, sent to sea by an evil
uncle when he was but fourteen years old, captured by pirates, only to become a
good and honourable pirate chief - were there such a profession! - and running
his blacksmith's forge in the off-season.

'It cannot be!' cried Susan.

'Yes!
Yes!' Will returned. 'Close your eyes, Susan, and trust the beating of your
heart as it answers mine!'

Miss
Jacques did just that, causing a ripple of laughter around the company.
Everyone knew that she had her heart set upon Will Lovegrove, and it was a
matter of some amusement that she would insist upon rehearsing, more than
once, their passionate embraces. The laughter broke the order, and Mr Carrier
seized the opportunity to quickly bring the reading to an end. He had few
comments (none of them written down), but they were all to the mark.

'Ladies
and gentlemen of the company - my customary remark at this point in the year.
You will be, of course, by next rehearsal, as my provincial colleagues express
it so prosaically, DLP: Dead Letter Perfect. Now to the leads. Pay more attention
to your articulation, Mr Lovegrove, and try not to over-reach yourself. Miss
Jacques - more charm, less archness, if you please. We are the virtuous
heroine, not the comedy chambermaid. Mr Pettifer - I pay you to be comic, Mr
Pettifer, not bucolic.' And so on.

The
cast were not at all put out (except Miss Jacques, who bit her lip and tapped
her foot) and allowed themselves a smile. They were to reassemble, concluded Mr
Carrier, and work upon the ballets with Mons. Villechamps, and there would be
costume fittings for the principals. Attend, if you please, at 2 o'clock.'

And
then he turned to me. Brutus, Nero and I had sat patiently by the side of the
stage, listening, I have to confess, with great interest to Trim's dramatic
work. I had been party to the ebbs and flows of his dramatic temperament as the
piece was revised and rewritten, and felt that I knew it thoroughly already.
But hearing it performed, as it were, in its entirety for the first time and,
even more, hearing Mr Carrier say, 'And here there will be business for Brutus
and Nero' and 'At this point, Mr Chapman's dogs will bound upon the stage and
seize the villain by the throat,' made it suddenly leap into life.

'Now,
Mr Chapman,' he said, 'you will have, by the end of the day, a finished copy of
your cues from Mr Pocock, and we will this afternoon finalize the detail of
your pieces. If there is anything you require, anything at all, see Mr Pocock.
I am sure you and your fine animals will be a great success. Good day to you,
sir.'

And he shook my hand, and greeted both my lads with
a pat upon the head and hurried away, pulling on his gloves and signalling to
Mr Lombard. I felt as important a fellow as any upon that stage! Mr Pocock,
busily scribbling at his little table, was copying
my
cues. Mr Pettifer was admiring
my
dogs and looking them
over as if he was a judge at a show. And Will Lovegrove, who is
my
friend and received many admiring glances from the company, strode over and
clapped
me
upon the shoulder saying, There you are, Bob.
Didn't I tell you! Now, let's find ourselves a decent pie-shop for our
dinners!' and steered me towards the stage steps down into the auditorium, with
Brutus and Nero in train. What larks, indeed!

I
had never seen the stage of the great Pavilion theatre 'undressed', as it were.
Like most folks, I was used to seeing it set with scenery and occupied by
actors, but to stand in the great central aisle and see the massive stage in a
shambles, with properties for the evening performance covered over with cloths
and with a London street scene half-suspended from the gridiron, and hear not
the dramatic tones of actors' voices, but a chorus of clatters, thuds and
hallooing, was strange. The half-dropped scene flew, as if by necromancy, into
the rafters and was replaced by another (showing a blue sea and sky and a
golden sandy shore) which rushed down from the heights of the flies and
stopped, with inches to spare, above the stage floor. Palm trees made of lath
and plaster appeared, and sandy-coloured hillocks, and from behind them
appeared Mr Lombard, the scenery manager, with his hat clamped tight to his
head, barking orders left and right. An asthmatic wheeze announced Mr Parry,
the rehearsal musician, with his fiddle and a roll of music, and poor, overworked
Mr Pocock was forced to relinquish his table, chair and corner of the stage and
shift to the front row of the auditorium.

'Bob,
my old friend,' said Will, gently, 'I have been calling you these last five
minutes! I fear you are bewitched by the stage, so I will consign you to its
magic, and your noble Romans shall accompany me whilst I fetch us two mutton
pies and a large jug.'

I
could not argue with him, for I was indeed entranced by the noise and activity,
and besides, this was something of a holiday for me. I had even put up a sign
in the Aquarium - 'Chapman's Sagacious Canines - gone to the Pavilion Theatre'
- just as General Tom Thumb did when he visited the Queen at Windsor! - though
I was cautious to add in small letters at the bottom, 'Back later.' And after
the anxieties of the last few days, I persuaded myself that I deserved a brief
ticket-of- leave, so I shifted a seat cover and settled down to watch as if I
had paid my sixpence and bought my ticket.

The
stage hands, having cleared away the chairs under Mr Lombard's watchful eye,
were set to their tasks - one reattaching a palm leaf to its trunk, another
adding a dab of paint here and there to a boulder. A man with a face bound up
with a large piece of dirty flannel, was crouching over the floats, collecting
the dust and straw which caused so much trouble to Mr Pilcher when the gas was
lit. Another swept and watered the floor and brushed the curtains. Everywhere I
looked someone was hammering, painting, moving a property bush or hillock, all
to the tune of Mr Parry, who was sawing away on his fiddle and practising his
churchyard cough. Then, from the wings, appeared Mons. Villechamps, the dancing
master, who clapped twice and summoned the children's ballet and their mothers,
hundreds, it seemed, like a swarm of buzzing insects, all come from far and
wide for examination and selection. With a whistle, Mr Lombard called off his
men and they left with much muttering and shaking of heads. Now Mr Parry
shifted himself to within eyeshot of Mons. Villechamps and the trials began.