The Newgate Jig (12 page)

The
children were tried, some in twos and threes, some singly. The good Monsieur
was an exacting man and went about everything with a great deal of energy,
racing across the stage, even standing in the aisle of the auditorium, and
talking to himself in a Frenchy-English sort of way, putting his head first on
this side and then the other. 'Theese leetle one?
Peut-
ê
tre.'
And then some Frenchy nonsense followed when he
seemed to persuade himself and then nodded.
'Oui.
Yes.
Bon.
She ees good, this leetle one.' The 'leetle one' was
a mite of perhaps four or five years with a round, a very round, pink face and
golden curls like curd, tied up with a broad blue ribbon. She had no particular
talent, but looked
well, and her mama was mightily
pleased and unable to suppress a grim smile when Monsieur said, 'You -
maman
-
come and see me at
finis
.
We will discuss,
oui
?'

And so it continued.
Monsieur liked to arrange his diminutive charges across the stage to ensure
that there were no rank weeds amongst the daisies and violets. Some little
ones were pointed at and summarily dismissed, with a 'You,
cheveuxjustes,
oui,
number three. You must go. Too
grosse,
not 'andsome.'

Whereupon
the child - small, thin, dark-eyed - looked around her, counted, gazed at
Monsieur, saw him staring at her, realized that she was found wanting and, with
head hanging low and tears already pricking her eyes, scurried away to the
stage side and her mama's skirts, with ten dozen pairs of eyes watching her.
Her mother, a narrow-lipped, hard-faced woman, with a baby bound to her breast,
and another clinging to her side, was inclined to argue with the Monsieur, but
she had no more chance of bettering him than a cat in hell without claws. Her
Billingsgate was no match for his Frenchy- squashing, which was given fast and
loud with many 'pah's and 'foh's and good dollop of 'yagh's for emphasis.

'She
eees no gooood,' spat he. 'She eeees like
elephant.
So—'
He stomped about the stage with his knees bent and his legs apart, his long
arms dangling by his side. It was amusing, but nothing like the little creature
who, though it had danced without any skill or grace, certainly did not lumber
so grotesquely. And I thought it cruel to so shame the child who had tried her
best, but was no coryphee. She wept as he mimicked her pathetic efforts, and
the chorus of mothers and children sniggered, out of relief, I suppose, that he
had not lit upon them. Finally, the mother gave up her protest, grabbed the
child by her wrist and marched her away.

'Alors,'
said the Monsieur, straightening his coat and
smoothing his goatee, 'now we are rid of de
animale de zoo,
we can co-mmence.
Les papillons, les oiseaux tropicaux, les insectes,
if you pleeese.'

Some
fairies, butterflies, tropical birds and insects were very small indeed, and as
the examination progressed, they became weary, and crept onto their mothers'
laps and fell asleep for it was a long and tiring business.

'Cheeldren,'
Monsieur began with the new cohort, 'I would la-ike you to show me your most
bee-u-ti-fool pirouette. Not like ze
elephant
- so.' He aped a
lumbering circle of heavy steps. 'But la-ike de
papillons.
Now, and now, and now, and now, and now,' and drumming time with his cane
whilst the mites staggered and spun like dizzy insects to the rollicking tune
of Mr Parry's fiddle. At first, of course, it was a game, but soon little legs
became tired and little arms cold, and there was no end to Monsieur's demands -
'be a leetle flow-er', 'make a leetle curtsey'. They were weary and fretful and
it was only the iron will of their mothers (accompanied by fierce threats)
which kept them there.

Two
wet noses at my hand and an odour of gravy in my nostrils signalled the return
of Brutus, Nero and Will, the latter bearing two mutton pies ('Handmade by Mrs
Lovett, Bob!') and a stone jar of ale. He settled in beside me, putting his
long legs up on the back of the seat in front and munching vigorously on the
warm pie.

'So,
my good friend, the joys of the stage, eh!' he said, between bites. 'Once you
are stung by
apis histrionicus,
you are itching for life.' The theatre was dark,
but I could hear in his voice the seriousness of his expression. 'Be careful,
Bob. In the theatre, as in life, things are not always as they seem. We are
magicians, illusion is our trade and for a few hours each night this little
wooden platform, these foolish actors become whatever we - and you - desire
them to be. But when Pilcher turns down the gas and Lombard rings down the
curtain, this is no longer a sunny island and we are no longer pirates and
heroes. It is just a put-together world, Bob, and not ever what it seems to
be.'

What,
I wondered, had brought about this seriousness? But he said no more on the
subject and turned his attention to the poor children and how they appeared
'half starved and tired to the bone', and how their mothers attended more to
the shillings than to their welfare. I have a fellow feeling with Will, for
like me he is given to dark moods as well as gay ones.

I
put it down to his profession: a man cannot be so pressed and agonised each
night by the heroes he represents without some effect upon his spirit. So we
ate our pies in silence after that, and the spell was broken.

Once
the stage emptied of children and began filling up again with the company, Mr
Carrier reappeared. Miss Fleete, the keeper of the costume store, had been
summoned, with her assistant, to measure the whole cast of principals for their
dresses and to discuss with him (for he liked to be consulted about everything)
their design and colour.

'Ladies
and gentlemen,' he began, addressing the chattering company, 'let me beg your
indulgence for but half an hour whilst our excellent Miss F works her
necromancy upon our wardrobe for which, as you know, the Pavilion Theatre is
deservedly well known. This year will be her crowning success.' He cast a
critical eye over the company and then looked about him. 'Where is Mr Chapman?
And his excellent canines? Has he left?'

Will
took me by the arm and propelled me towards the stage!

'Here
he is, sir,' as we climbed the steps. 'Ship-shape and Bristol fashion - or soon
to be when the divine Miss F has worked her wonders.'

(For
the second time today, I am included in the company!)

All
eyes turned as Miss Fleete approached, small and hunchbacked, with a short
right leg and, because of her distortion, permanently bowing. But crooked or
no, she was the mistress of her craft and created the finest, most extravagant
dresses and costumes from the most unpromising materials. She had no measuring
tape nor pins as she made the rounds of our company, but could eye up a leg or
waist or sleeve and, quick as a Barnaby, would call, 'Mr Corben, 32 with a
little,' or 'Miss Vickers, a nippy 18 but allow for activity,' to her assistant
who stood quietly at her side with a pencil and notebook. That assistant is
Emily Pikemartin, the daughter of Alf Pikemartin, our Aquarium doorkeeper.

I
think I am in love with Em. To see her hurrying along the street or stopping to
look in a shop window, to hear her light step upon the stairs and smell the
faint fragrance of linen and cotton which surrounds her, gives me joy
immeasurable. And I am fortunate that I see her often, for she helps her father
in the Aquarium of an evening when she has finished her day's work with Miss
Fleete, and though her eyes must be sore with the close work she has been doing
and her shoulders stiff with sitting all day, I have never heard her complain.
She always has time for Brutus and Nero, sitting upon the stairs with a golden
and black devotee on either side, talking sweetly and quietly whilst they
listen and, now and again, lick her hand or put their head upon her lap. I
would it were me! I would gladly kneel at her feet and listen to her soft voice
and kiss her hand and never want for anything in the world ever again. But I
have seen the looks she gives Will Lovegrove, secretly, from downcast eyes, and
if he chances to look in her direction, she blushes very prettily and pretends
to examine the hem of her dress. And he does glance often at her, and quite
often it is more than a glance. When he comes to the Aquarium, he follows her
about like a puppy whilst she is sweeping the floor or dusting the waxworks,
and recently I have seen them walking and talking together. Of course, I tell
myself that Em
would
love me, if she had not already fixed her heart upon
Will.

Having greeted Will (who, of course, bowed and took
her hand and kissed it) and said, 'Ah, Mr Lovegrove, a fine leg, chest - well,
manly - let us hazard, shall we Emily?', Miss Fleete is in a little fluster, and
must smooth her dress and adjust her hairpins before she could finally make
anything of me. 'Ah yes, Mr Chapman,' she said, 'shoulders 40, a short sleeve,
a belt I think, Emily, if we can find one.' Emily and Will catch each other's
eye and I saw, not for the first time, a rare expression upon my friend's
handsome face. One that was more serious than ironic, and it made me wonder. Em
bent to her notebook and scribbled hard but, I think, smiled under the amber
gaslight.

'Hello,
Bob,' she whispered, and then greeted Brutus and Nero with a familiar fondness.
Will was watching her, and continued to watch as she followed Miss F from the
stage and opened the door for her. Then he examined his boots, and glanced at
me, and muttered, 'She is a lovely girl, Bob, and dash my rags if I am not
completely devoted to her.'

I could not look at him.

Finally,
when I had spent my holiday in watching and wonder, Mr Carrier called me and my
fine fellows to perform, and there was much interest in it, for most of the
company lingered when they could have made tracks to the Bell and Leper.
Instead, they decamped to the pit or the stage side and settled down to hear Mr
Carrier describe Trim's 'dog pieces'. I had to concentrate upon Mr Carrier, for
Mr Pocock's newly copied pieces were not yet to hand, and I learned that my
boys must run onto a sandy shore, leap over rocks, bark at a pirate hiding in a
tree, hunt out treasure buried beneath the sand (in fact, beneath the trap door
in the stage), fell the villainous pirate chief to the ground and have him by
the throat ('the seize', a trick all performing dogs should do, but at which
many fail), open gates and carry lanterns and, finally, accompany the hero and
heroine and the children's ballet in a grand and triumphal procession through
the village, each dog carrying the flag of St George in his mouth! We went
through much of it easily, and received appreciative applause. But there were
some tricks, such as hunting out the treasure and appearing to dig for it,
which would need practice. Nevertheless, I was pleased with it all, and had
Brutus and Nero bark and lift their paws in acknowledgement, which was
universally admired. As the company dispersed, Mr Carrier clapped me upon the
shoulder.

'Marvellous,
marvellous, Mr Chapman. A remarkable display of training and obedience. I
think we have a success here. We will far outshine Mr Hennessey and his
pyrotechnics! When Gouffe, our man-monkey arrives, we are complete, but you
and your remarkable animals will be the stars in the Pavilion's firmament!'

I
was so proud, I felt I should burst! I was given my own parts (copied cues and
the ink still wet) to take with me, and Mr Carrier shook me by the hand and
then departed, talking earnestly to Mr Pocock. I thought I heard Mr Carrier
say, 'Excellent, excellent, Pocock,' and imagined he was talking about me.

The
great black mouth of the theatre was now fallen silent, for there had been a
wholesale exodus to refreshment houses and nearby lodgings, and the stage
labourers were at their rest before the evening performances began. Only Mr
Lombard and a handful of scene-shifters stomped about, dragging off the
makeshift scenery my boys and I had used, and dragging on the rocks and
boulders necessary for
Perilous and Drear
that evening.
They were soon done, having turned down the gas and lowered the great
chandelier in readiness for Mr Pilcher to test it. But I could have stood on
the stage until the first customers wandered in, and would have done had not Mr
Lombard shouted to me, 'You! Dog-man! Mind yourself!' and dropped the curtain
with a heavy 'whoosh'.

And with that, the magic was gone.