by Andy Conway
“Apologize?” Swingeford said, looking around at the two score faces accusing him and feeling much less sure of himself.
“I accept your apology,” Belle said, putting a hand on his arm. “And now, Mr Swingeford, if it pleases you, we shall prepare for the show.”
“I demand we have this out with my sister, this instant.”
“Certainly, Mr Swingeford. I would be delighted of your company, and your dear sister’s, and we may discuss the matter and...” she added pointedly, “other matters that have arisen today. But let it be after the show. I beg you.”
Swingeford put his gloved hand on hers and raised his chin in as haughty a manner as he could muster. “Tonight at nine, I shall expect to see you at Mrs Jowett’s.”
“Thank you,” Belle said.
Swingeford marched out with his nose in the air, pushing Fred out of the way.
The cast watched him go and their eyes all turned on Belle, curious at the scene they had just witnessed.
“Why did you agree to meet him?” Fred asked.
Belle looked to Mrs Hudson. “Because the show must go on. If he would stop it from happening, think of all those children who’d be so disappointed. I couldn’t send them to their cold beds tonight without a little Christmas cheer.”
“You can’t marry him,” Fred said.
The actors gasped.
“Marry him?”
“He’s proposed?”
“That awful old man?”
“Yes,” said Belle, closing her eyes at the thought. “He has proposed to me this night.”
“What a dreadful old bully,” Dickens said. “You absolutely should not give in to him.”
“It appears I have little choice.”
“It’s monstrous,” said Mr Wilber.
“He thinks he can buy a woman like a railway stock,” said Mr Fezzwig.
“Aren’t all marriages business partnerships?” Forster asked.
“So speaks our eminent bachelor,” Dickens snapped.
“That’s rather cruel,” said Forster. “And I resent it from someone who is so unhappily married.”
“I’m not unhappily married!” Dickens laughed, a little too forcefully.
“You referred to your wife as the Donkey this morning.”
“It’s my pet name for her. And a husband may let off a little steam now and then without his love being called into question. If you ever married you would know it, John. I dearly hope you one day get to feel that frustration.”
“Yes,” said Mr Fezzwig. “Why should you escape the misery?” He let out such a bellow of a laugh that everyone joined in. It was all a joke.
Belle smiled to cover her pain. “I have given Mr Swingeford permission only to court me,” she said. “It matters not if I eventually refuse his offer of marriage. I still have that card to play. It is the only thing left to me.”
“And are you going to refuse?” Fred asked.
Belle said nothing.
Fred shook his head and stormed off.
They all watched him go and shuffled uncomfortably.
“I think Mr Fred might be harbouring feelings for you, dear Miss Belle,” said Mr Wilber. “I have seen it in his eyes.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Belle.
“Most definitely,” said Mr Fezzwig. “It’s obvious to a blind beggar.”
“And he’s angry with you,” said Mrs Aldridge.
Ira agreed. “The rage of Othello. Jealousy.”
“He can’t be angry with me,” Belle said. “He has made no feelings known to me. Swingeford has at least done that. Now, ladies and gentlemen. It is time.”
She clapped her hands and the cast scrambled back to their dressing rooms to grab their props and don the last accessories of their costumes, and in twenty seconds they were filing to the stage.
— 25 —
BOB CRATCHIT PUSHED through to the auditorium with Tim at his side, a fatherly hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t call him ‘tiny’ anymore, he reminded himself. He feared those days were over now. A little bit of his child’s innocence lost. He was growing up and growing away.
The gilded grandeur of the place took his breath away and he gasped in wonder.
“Look at it, t... Tim. What opulence. What majesty!”
They piled in and took seats in the stalls as close to the stage and as near to the centre of the row as they could get, the poor children of the Froggery and their parents piling in with an unruly scramble for seats. Up in the boxes, the toffs looked down on them with paternal smiles.
An orchestra struck up a dainty ditty and the children stamped their feet along with it and clapped too, it was such a joy to see them so happy, laughing, giddy with glee. You never saw them like this any other day of the year.
But Tim wasn’t so happy.
Bob patted his son’s knee and gave him a consoling smile to gee him up. The poor boy was probably still fretting on the unfortunate events of the afternoon, getting sacked by Swingeford. Probably still distraught. That five shillings was a loss and the house would feel the pinch and no mistake. But something would turn up. Tim would get a position somewhere else. After Christmas.
“Don’t think on it, Tim. Put it behind you. It’s Christmas.”
They would enjoy the Harlequinade and walk home in the snow, father and son, where Mrs Cratchit would have the fire roaring and the house warm and the festivities could truly begin.
The curtain opened and the crowd let out such a thunder of applause, most of it from the children in the stalls. The toffs upstairs clapped politely. It must be a very different experience when the theatre wasn’t full of children from the Froggery. Not as jolly, that was certain.
The first scene was a comedy slapstick routine with a young gentleman and his clumsy servant. It was a good job there was very little in the way of dialogue because nothing could be heard over the screams of joy. It was as if the children had been bottling up all their laughs for this one moment.
Then, when they’d got it all out, on came the beautiful young lady, the poor heroine of the story — and wasn’t that Miss Belle herself playing the part? — and her evil miser of a father, played by Mr Wilber was forcing her into marrying a mysterious African prince, played by Ira Aldridge. Only Miss Belle wasn’t remotely in love with him. But that didn’t matter to the father because this African prince had a Mountain of Money, and that was the Most Important Thing in the World. Mr Wilber was such a convincing old miser and, oh! wasn’t he impersonating Mr Swingeford? He had his walk and the way he clutched his cane and the way he said “Bah!” and “Humbug!” whenever anyone said something nice to him.
Bob craned his neck to see if Swingeford was in one of the gilded boxes but he couldn’t find him. He nudged Tim. “Oh, if Mr Wilber doesn’t watch out, he might be getting the sack from old Swingeford himself, eh?”
Tim forced a smile. He really was out of sorts. But never mind, he’d be quite back to himself again after a good old Christmas Day with the family. Tomorrow would be a fresh start for all of them.
A boy came along the row and Bob moved his knees aside to let him pass, but he stopped and said, “Mr Cratchit, sir?”
“Yes, boy,” Cratchit said, surprised.
“I’ve a message from your wife. Mrs Cratchit.”
“What is it?” Bob felt the colour run from his cheeks and his heart was thumping in his chest.
“Mrs Jowett was taken ill at the theatre tonight. I helped her into a cab myself. Mrs Cratchit says she has to take her home and get the doctor. So she might be late home tonight. She said I was to come and find you and let you know, sir.”
“Thank you, boy,” Cratchit said.
The boy hovered. Cratchit dug in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a penny. The boy slunk off, disappointed.
At least it wasn’t Emily who was ill. For a moment he’d been quite taken aback and feared the worst. The thought of his dear Emily suffering was too much to bear. And yet, one day it would happen. One day, hopefully i
n the far future, many years from now, either he or his wife would have to watch their beloved take their last breath and slip away into the unknown. The thought was terrifying.
No, he thought. It was nothing so dramatic. All he could hope was that this wouldn’t ruin their Christmas. They were to wrap the presents for the children tonight and there was so much to prepare for their special day. It seemed rather unfair that Mrs Jowett should fall ill on the only holiday they had as a family, but it couldn’t be helped.
He caught Tim’s look of concern.
“We’ll stay. It’s all right. There’s nothing we can do. Ma will be home later. We’ll have our Christmas as a family, don’t you fear, t... Tim. It’ll be the best Christmas ever, you wait and see.”
He put his mind back to the show and shoved away his dark thoughts.
The young gentleman and the beautiful young lady had run away together and were now engaged in a series of picaresque adventures. And here they encountered a mysterious magician, Mr Bongo the Great, who performed magic tricks.
And wait, wasn’t that... why, it was surely Mr Dickens! A hum of recognition fluttered around the theatre, mostly in the balconies as the children wouldn’t have recognized the great author. The same whispered words a breeze flying all around the place.
“Is that Dickens?”
“Why, it is Dickens!”
“Dear Boz, on the stage!”
And he was a delightful magician. He pulled a rabbit from a top hat, he made the boy disappear, only to bring him back again in a puff of smoke, and he took a little ragged girl from the audience to great applause and merriment and turned her into a dove that flew into the rafters. He apologized to her poor mother and suggested that she might now feed the birds every day just in case one of them was her daughter, and the audience howled with laughter.
But Tim didn’t seem at all interested in the show or Mr Dickens’ magic performance. He kept looking up at the boxes, more interested in the society ladies and gents. Mr Forster was up there watching the show. Yes, wasn’t Mr Dickens supposed to be there with him, writing a review on the play? And there he was on the stage, performing in it. A proper turn up for the books.
Tim fidgeted and stood.
“Where are you going, Tim, my son?”
“To the necessary.”
“You’ll miss the show, Tim.”
“I have to go, father.”
“Go on then.”
And off he scampered along the row.
Fancy needing to go to the necessary. It was such a plush, luxurious place to be that you ought to relish every single moment of it. Just to be lucky enough to sit here and take in all this. Not just Mr Dickens’ conjuring — the whole place was an act of magic. And Mr Wilber’s magic lantern projections were indeed a triumph. The boys and girls oohed and aahed with such reverence. And the adults too. No one had ever seen anything like it. Ghostly backdrops of exotic locations that shimmered and melted, and ghosts and ghouls that flew about the stage. A horse and carriage rode towards everyone in silhouette and it seemed like it would ride right off the stage and crush the entire audience. They screamed and ducked, till it filled the screen all black and disappeared to great and relieved laughter.
And now the young lovers encountered a friendly giant played by Mr Fezzwig from the Hen and Chickens Hotel. He must have been twenty feet tall, tottering around on stilts. Only you couldn’t see the stilts under his great green robe. The children cried out in amazement. A real giant. Some of them were even crying. But Fezzwig beamed a great smile and gave out such a jolly laugh and then delved a hand into a giant sack and threw sweets into the audience. The children scrambled for them, and those that were crying very quickly stopped to try to catch the sweets with the rest. He threw so many that there can’t have been a single child in the theatre who didn’t get at least a couple.
And Tim had missed it.
Where had the boy got to? He looked all around him but couldn’t see him in the aisles making his way back to his seat. Was he lost?
Bob wondered if he’d run off. He’d been sulking all day, since Swingeford had turfed him out. Understandable. But there was something else. His son was sullen, sulking, angry — a closed fist. Was this the way of the world? Was this how his son turned from boy to man? It wasn’t what he’d hoped. He didn’t want to see his son turn into one of those angry young men. The kind of men who fell under the spell of Slogger Pike. But there was little he could do. He was losing control. He was watching it happen, like a tragedy unfolding on the stage and he couldn’t stand and shout from his seat and warn the actors under the limelight that disaster was upon them.
He got up from his seat and edged along the row, and out through the exit door, out from the warmth and laughter and into the cold corridor. There was a Water Closet there and he entered and called “Tim?” His voice echoed back to him. The Necessary was empty.
He skirted along the passageway that emptied him out to the rear of the New Royal Hotel, out into the harsh cold and a pristine snowdrift that coated the alley. Pristine but for a set of footprints that went halfway up the alley and mysteriously stopped mid-way.
In the dark gloom he tried to see if his son was loitering there, or out there at the end of the alley where the gas lamps from Ethel Street glowed and the street was a golden blaze of snow.
Something fell from the building to the side. A bump and a scuffle. A boy jumping from a window.
“Tim?”
The figure turned, frozen, his face hidden in shadow.
“Tim? Is that you?”
The boy ran. It was Tim, there was no doubt about it. Cratchit ran after him, up the dark alley to that chink of white light. The boy reached the end of the alley, looked back once more and dodged out of sight.
Cratchit came to the alley’s mouth, skidding on the slippery snow.
His son, Tim, scampering off, looked back once more, clutching something to his chest, his face lit by a gaslamp at the foot of Ethel Street, the last lamp before the dark shadow of the Froggery.
A man loomed out of the shadows and put a hand on Tim’s shoulder. A leering face notorious in the Froggery. A face you crossed the street to avoid.
Slogger Pike.
They ran off together into the darkness.
Bob Cratchit stood frozen in mute horror. He knew one thing for certain. This Christmas he had lost his only son.
— 26 —
BELLE TOOK HER FINAL bow with the entire cast and the curtain closed a last time. The applause thundered on. The breathless ecstasy of triumph plummeted in her heart, a skylark falling, and she realized, before the applause had even petered out, that she must now face Swingeford and Mrs Jowett’s bizarre accusation.
And Swingeford’s marriage proposal.
The applause behind the curtain died and the rumble of a thousand exiting feet came under the chatter of the children talking excitedly of the show as they left.
“A triumph!” said Mr Fezzwig.
“The best ever!” said Mr Wilber.
The cast hugged each other on the stage.
“The reviews shall call it so,” said Ira Aldridge.
Everyone looked to Dickens.
“Well, I can’t very well write a review of my own show now, can I?” he said. “That would be most unethical.”
They roared with laughter.
“Mr Dickens,” Belle said. “I do apologize if you have foregone a lucrative commission.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
“Besides,” said Forster, “we came here for far more lucrative business.”
Mr Wilber tapped his nose. “We’re not allowed to talk about that.”
“Yes, Mr Huffam,” Fezzwig said.
They roared with laughter some more.
“It was folly to presume that we might ever come here incognito,” Dickens said.
“Well, that can hardly be blamed on me,” said Forster.
This was the best of it
, Belle thought, this post-performance bliss, the camaraderie of it, the overwhelming emotion that this bond could never be broken, this happy band of players.
She looked out to the wings where Mrs Hudson and Fred stood. Both of them beaming. Belle held their gaze for a while and the voices faded. Fred, when he smiled, gave her such a look that made her feel... oh, all light and her knees gave way a little and her belly flipped over. And then her heart was doused with such sorrow that he wasn’t interested in her and had shown her nothing.
And what was he even? A ghost from Christmas yet to come. A spirit who would disappear with the morning dew. A vision her imagination had conjured. Nothing more.
Mr Fezzwig grabbed her and kissed both her cheeks. “You are a genius, my girl!”
The curtain was rising, revealing an empty auditorium, only the hubbub from the Shakespeare Rooms at the front of house, and the Theatre Tavern on Lower Temple Street to the side.
She was the first to see him.
A solitary figure stood on the stage, coming from the side. Belle realized one audience member had stayed. She didn’t recognize him at first, his face so haunted.
It was Bob Cratchit. His shoulders hunched, clutching his top hat.
The cast ceased their chatter as they too became aware of the presence. All of them detecting a malevolent strain that infected the air.
“Why, Mr Cratchit. What is it?” Belle asked.
The look on his face, like he’d seen a ghost and almost passed on to the other side himself with the shock of it. She knew that look. It always came with bad news. It always came with the sense of life changing for the worse, forever after.
“I’m afraid something awful has happened,” Bob Cratchit said.
He didn’t say it to her. He looked to Dickens and Forster.
“Sirs,” Cratchit said, swallowing hard. “You wouldn’t happen to have kept the money for your business transaction in your hotel room today, would you?”
Dickens and Forster shared a glance.
“Well, yes,” said Forster. “What of it?”
“And you wouldn’t have happened to let my son, young Tim, see you do that, would you?”