by Andy Conway
“Oh, and it appears it might be a white Christmas!” he cried.
The air danced around him, as if on cue, a delightful stage effect.
“We must revive the old Christmas customs,” he cried, “and let them not fall into disrepair. Let this season be one where we reach out to each other and give the best of ourselves!”
The crowd applauded heartily and everyone stood an inch taller and made plans to get a Christmas wreath for their door within the hour.
Fred leaned close to Mrs Hudson and murmured, “I feel like I’ve walked into a Christmas card.”
“And may I say how delighted I am that the Theatre Royal is to perform a show on Christmas Eve for the poor children of the parish. How fine and noble it is. God bless us every one!”
The applause rang out and echoed all the way down New Street, from the pillars of the Town Hall all the way down to the spire of St Martin in the Bull Ring.
Mrs Hudson watched the effect his words had on those who gazed up at him. In particular she noted the joy on Belle’s face. And when he’d finished his speech and went into the theatre with the mob of the cast, she felt her work was done. Whatever it was she was here to do, perhaps she’d done it.
John Forster tutted and shook his head. “There’s no containing him,” he said. “No use. No use at all.”
“He’s adored,” said Mrs Hudson.
“And that adoration is like air to him. He can’t live without it.”
“Come inside, Mr Forster. I fear he may be occupied for some time yet.”
She couldn’t help chuckling as she walked in. The crowd outside the theatre dispersed and went about its way on New Street with a lighter step and a little more full of Christmas spirit.
Mrs Hudson breezed through the ballroom space of the Theatre Royal’s vast foyer, with the Shakespeare Rooms tavern and the coffee house on either side already doing brisk business.
They went through the auditorium and joined the cast on the stage in the warm limelight, all fussing over Ira Aldridge and Charles Dickens. It seemed the colourful nature of the cast had been turned up a few notches. Mrs Hudson could see that they were acting up for him as they brought out their costumes and sashayed under the lights — acting Dickensian. Unless everyone really was like this and Dickens might have been more of a realist than she thought.
Forster seemed to read her thought. “They all want to be in his next book.”
Mr Fezzwig tottered around on stilts and everyone whooped with delight to see such an enormous man stalking the stage. He had a great green fur-lined robe that came down to the floor to hide the stilts. He was a gentle great roaring giant.
Mr Wilber insisted on giving a sneak preview of his magic lantern effects.
“Oh,” Dickens cried. “I do love a good magic lantern show.”
“Mr Wilber is quite the enthusiast,” said Belle. “He relishes the chance of using it on the stage every Christmas. For the poor children of the Froggery, it is the only opportunity they get to see a magic lantern show.”
A ghastly vision appeared on the great white backdrop curtain, and everyone stepped back, shocked.
The black silhouette of a coach-and-four that moved and grew bigger, riding towards them. It looked like it might burst right through the curtain.
It loomed bigger and bigger till they saw it coach driver’s face was hideous grinning skull.
“Bravo!” said Dickens. “Astonishing!”
Mr Wilber came from behind the curtain and bowed to their applause. “We must show Mr Dickens the Ghost!” he said.
“Oh yes! Do!”
“It’s perfectly horrid!”
“What is it?” Ira Aldridge asked.
“Of course,” said Mr Wilber. “You haven’t seen it yet. The Ghost’s costume is horribly macabre!”
“There’s a Ghost?” Dickens asked. “I thought this was a Harlequinade?”
“It is,” said Belle. “Every year we stage a Harlequinade, of sorts, and every year we write it in a different way.”
“But you have young lovers, a bullying father trying to marry off the young lady, a comical servant?”
“Some of those things, yes. But I have a ghost who transforms the mean father and makes him mend his ways by showing him his past, his present and his future.”
Dickens stroked his chin. “Interesting. Pause you, isn’t that rather like my story in The Pickwick Papers?” He looked to John Forster.
“Which story is that, Charles?”
“You know. The tale of Gabriel Grub, visited by goblins who show him his past and future.”
“Oh yes,” said Forster. “Quite similar.”
“I have meant no attempt to copy your work, Mr Dickens. I assure you my play, as trivial as it is, was original and came from my own imagination.”
“Of course,” said Charles, forcing a smile. “I meant no accusation. There are only so many stories we can tell. I’m sure yours is quite unlike mine.”
Mr Wilber came running out from backstage with what looked like a horse collar. “This is such an ingenious device. Miss Belle here designed it herself.”
He placed the collar over his head so it sat on his shoulders. Fiddling with the contraption, he snapped it tight so it created a false lower half of his face.
“I say,” said Dickens. “That looks wonderful.”
Mr Wilber took a bandage and tied it under the contraption’s chin, knotting it on top of his head.
“The idea,” said Belle, “is that the false jaw sits over the real jaw and when you untie the knot on top of the head, the false jaw flops down.”
Mr Wilber pulled at the knot on top of his head, the bandage fell loose and his jaw flopped down to his chest.
Everyone howled at the grisly effect.
“Oh, it’s horrible!”
The ladies turned away and squealed. The men chuckled with delight. It was the most gruesome sight. Mr Wilber’s real jaw was hidden and it looked like his mouth had fallen open in a grisly red abomination.
“Stop it!” Mrs Aldridge cried, covering her eyes and burying her face in her husband’s shoulder. He bellowed a hearty laugh.
Mr Wilber took the contraption off, his silver hair matted with sweat.
“Inspired by the death of Marley,” Mr Fezzwig said. “God rest his soul.”
“Marley? Who’s that?” Dickens asked.
“Oh, most terrible affair,” said Mr Wilber. “Eight years to this day, wasn’t it?”
“Indeed it was,” said Mr Fezzwig. “I remember it exactly, as it was the very night I first trod these boards, in the Christmas Eve Harlequinade of 1834.”
“Old Marley was a moneylender round these parts,” Mr Wilber said. “Brutally murdered in his own home on Christmas Eve. Just like that.” He held up the ghastly contraption and flapped the jaw.
“Take it away!” one of the other ladies cried.
“And here’s the irony,” Fezzwig said. “The man who did it walks free but now resides in the old prison.”
“Almost as if he’s cocking a snook at the law.”
“No one knows that it was him.”
“Everyone knows that it was him.”
“Slocombe Pike. A ghastly, vile creature. A pestilence on the poor people of the Froggery.”
“Well,” said Belle, “it is to be hoped that our performance today will give those poor people some respite from their situation.”
“Hear hear!” cried Mr Fezzwig.
“That is the awesome power of the theatre,” Dickens said, clapping his hands. He turned and spun in the limelight, holding out his arms as if to embrace the theatre. “I almost took to the stage myself, you know? I had an audition with the Covent Garden theatre but on the appointed day I was laid up with a terrible cold and an inflammation of the face. I chose the life of a man of letters instead. But oh, the magic of the stage!”
He was struck with a sudden idea.
“One of you ladies,” he said. “Your pocket handkerchief, if I may?”
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He went to Mrs Aldridge and she took out a purple silk handkerchief tastefully embroidered. Dickens took it, bowed and held it up for all to see. He pushed it into his fist, smiling archly, prodding it till it disappeared entirely. He waved his free hand over his fist, swirling an aura of magic.
“My dear lady,” he said, “I’m afraid your pocket handkerchief has gone. And is now...”
He smacked his fist and fanned out his hands and there, he held a paper cone full of coloured beans.
“... transformed by the power of magic into... a posy of comfits!”
He presented the cone to Mrs Aldridge. Everyone cooed with delight.
“Oh! Sweetmeats!”
“Comfits!”
Mrs Aldridge ate one. “They’re real!”
She offered them around and everyone took one.
“Sugarplums!”
Applause rang out. Dickens bowed.
“A magician! As well as a great author!”
“‘Tis a mere frippery,” Dickens said. “I bought a complete conjurer’s kit from Hamley’s of High Holborn and I aim to perform a magic show for my son’s birthday in the new year.”
Mr Fezzwig stepped forward and gripped Dickens’ arm with sudden vehemence. “Oh, Mr Dickens! You ought to be in our play! Your magic would so delight the children!”
“Oh, yes!” they cried.
“What a capital idea!”
“Oh, do!”
Belle held up a hand to shush them and drew Dickens away. “No, you mustn’t bully Mr Dickens into performing for us. He is here to review the play for a periodical and we mustn’t compromise him.”
Mrs Hudson caught the speck of disappointment in his eye.
“It is true,” he said, “I am supposed to maintain a level of professional detachment. Even to be here, talking to you all...”
Forster took his elbow.
“But I shall be delighted to attend your pantomime,” Dickens announced.
“It is also a mere frippery,” said Belle. “A simple entertainment for the children.”
“What could be grander and more noble an undertaking at this time?” Dickens said.
The cast broke out into warm applause, with cries of “Hear hear,” and “Well said,” and “Very good!”
“I shall return and take my seat and be glad of the entertainment.”
John Forster took out his pocket watch.
“Now, my dear thespians, I fear my manager has business for me to attend to. Much as I would love to stay and talk of theatre with you good people.”
“No!” they cried. “Go!”
Mrs Hudson saw they would have railroaded him out of there if he had stayed a moment longer. The great author had other business to attend to — in their town! — and he should be about it this instant. They agreed whole-heartedly, even though it would mean his leaving.
Charles Dickens strode off the stage and up the aisle, Forster pushing him in case he changed his mind, the entire cast waving him away.
“Now, good friends,” Belle said, clapping her hands. “We need to go through our entrances and exits one last time, and for the benefit of Mr Aldridge, take him through the staging.”
Mrs Hudson and Fred edged away to the wings and watched the bustle of stagecraft for a minute. But then... something curious. One by one, the cast stopped listening to Belle and stared out at the auditorium.
Belle noticed and followed their gaze.
Mrs Hudson looked too as the theatre fell silent.
Standing in the aisle was a shadowy figure in a top hat. Ebenezer Swingeford swept the hat from his head, and cast a cold, impenetrable gaze on them.
“Miss Ruth,” he said, with a leering kind of smile. “I must talk with you on a matter of grave importance.”
— 18 —
BELLE EXCUSED HERSELF and instructed the cast to continue with the last minute preparations. Mr Fezzwig took command and Belle asked Mr Swingeford to accompany her to her ‘drawing room’. As she did so she looked to Mrs Hudson, and so did Swingeford.
“Yes, of course,” said Mrs Hudson. A man could not go to a young lady’s drawing room alone. And Mrs Hudson was her guardian. Though she did wonder at Belle’s earlier comment that she didn’t quite count as a ‘lady’. Mrs Hudson wondered at the rules of social engagement for working class women. Was it the same or were they mere beasts of burden and no more needed a chaperone than a cat or a dog?
“And you also, sir,” Swingeford said, looking to Fred.
“Oh, yes, all right,” said Fred with the air of a boy in his first week of work suddenly called to the boss’s office.
Belle led them backstage and down the passage to the lumber room at the rear of the theatre. She stroked her dress out as she sat and Mrs Hudson noticed her straight back and proud bearing. She was not to be intimidated, even if she was to be thrown out of her home.
Swingeford looked askance at the untidiness of it as if he wasn’t sure where to sit. Belle waved him to the other chaise longue.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting company. I can send out for tea.”
“No need,” said Swingeford. “I don’t care for tea.”
He sat, perched on the edge of the chaise longue and stared at a point over Belle’s shoulder. Mrs Hudson craned to see what took his attention. A box frame in the corner of the room, curtained off. She pondered what it was and realized it was a sleeping compartment. A bed in a box that was, in effect, Belle’s bedroom. It was the kind of ‘bedroom’ most people in the country had. The idea of a room all of its own, devoted solely to sleeping, was one of unimaginable wealth. Most people in the country lived in one- or two-room hovels with their entire family.
“This is where you live, is it?” Swingeford said.
“Mr Swingeford, if this regards my domicile here, I can assure you that it has not been a problem for the existing committee members. I am acting as unofficial caretaker and largely unpaid manager of the theatre.”
“That is not an ideal arrangement and is certainly to be frowned upon.”
“Then I suggest you might propose it to the committee.”
“I hope there will be no need for that.”
This was a surprise, and Belle, Mrs Hudson and Fred all exchanged a puzzled glance. Was there a glimmer of humanity in the man?
He cracked a smile. And crack was the most suitable word, as it gave the impression that his face had indeed cracked, so long had it been set in a grimace.
“I had the pleasure of my sister’s company today,” Swingeford said.
“Yes,” said Belle, “I was there.”
“Not this morning. This afternoon. We talked of the matter of your recent good fortune.”
“My good fortune?”
“Your reconciliation with your long-lost relatives.”
This was it. Mrs Jowett would have told him the truth. Belle closed her eyes for a moment, a woman before a firing squad. Fred shuffled uneasily.
“My sister confirmed your story.”
“Oh?” said Belle.
She couldn’t hide her surprise and Mrs Hudson wondered if she too looked amazed. Fred coughed and covered his mouth with his fist. Why would Mrs Jowett have confirmed the hasty story they’d made up? It was clearly a lie. Had she chosen to protect Belle from this man?
“It is most curious,” said Swingeford. “All your life she has referred to you as an orphan. She put you in the city orphanage herself, having found you on the chapel step all those years ago. And now she agrees with this story regarding your family. Why is that?”
“It’s not a story, Mr Swingeford,” Fred said.
“Yes,” said Mrs Hudson. “Why would you doubt it?”
Swingeford bowed his head almost to hide his cunning smile. He knew it was all a lie. “I am glad your legal guardian is here, Miss Belle. In a way, it is most fortunate. I can now say what I couldn’t say this morning.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Belle.
“I have a proposal to make.”
“A business proposal?”
Swingeford frowned and seemed to think about this. He seemed unsure. He tilted his head as if considering the merits of how it might be a business proposal, and how it might not. “I suppose that all depends on how one might look at it. Business... yes.”
“You know I have no controlling stake in the theatre, Mr Swingeford. I am not on the board at all. You have a share. I do not. As I say, I am merely the theatre’s caretaker and live-in manager.”
“This is an issue that has been overlooked by the committee.”
“I think it has been very much in their best interests.”
“And that should change, in due course. Yes, it shall.”
What was he getting at? His new investment in the theatre seemed to spell the end for Belle’s independence, but he had a proposal for her. It seemed to hint at some hope.
“Mr Swingeford,” Mrs Hudson said. “You were to make a proposal?”
“Ah, yes. My proposal.” He looked around the room as if he might have mislaid his business proposal or it had been secreted somewhere in a game of hide-and-seek.
“Yes,” said Belle, “what is the nature of this business?”
“I mean to offer you a hand.”
“A hand?” said Belle.
“That is to say... yes, perhaps it is a business matter. An agreement of mutual benefit. A merger, or more accurately, by the letter of the law, an acquisition. Yes, an acquisition, why not? Custom does look upon it as that, it has to be said. The weight of tradition bears out the analogy.”
“Mr Swingeford,” said Belle. “I do not follow.”
Mrs Hudson groaned as she realized that Swingeford’s business proposal was...
“A proposal?” said Fred.
“I mean marriage,” said Swingeford.
Fred laughed. A short, sharp bark of amusement. But on catching Belle’s stricken face, he turned pale. His mouth sank into a crooked snarl, like he’d had a stroke.
“Marriage?” said Belle. “You are offering marriage?”
“Yes, isn’t that obvious?” said Swingeford.
“No,” said Fred. “That can’t happen.”
“And what concern is it of yours, cousin? Do you mean to make your own proposal?”