Whatever he felt, however, was nothing compared to the feelings he had for Archer.
By arriving early, he hoped to have time to admire his lover at work. Archer had delegated most of the gala arrangements to others on his committee, and Silas’ job was to be on hand for anything the viscount might need. That could vary from sending telegrams and letters, to voicing his opinion, from sharing his insight, to sharing his bed, and no matter the request, Silas was there and more than willing. He had half an hour to spare, but Archer appreciated punctuality, and Silas was keen to be in the building and out of the biting, December breeze.
He had never visited a theatre, let alone an opera house and was surprised that the entrance was so bland. It was if he cared to think back, not dissimilar to many doorways he had used in his previous life, at night and in secret. His initiation into the world of theatre came in the form of an open, wooden door not much bigger than himself. Not the grand staircase and pillared portico of the front, but the back, tradesman’s entrance, as Thomas would have called it, an almost secret way into a world as yet unexplored. He crossed the threshold, his excitement as keen as his intrigue.
What he saw was unimpressive. An elderly man sat reading a newspaper at a counter in front of a row of keys and pigeonholes. A ledger lay open on the table beside a steaming mug which the man held to warm his fingers. He looked up as Silas entered, stepping down into a small waiting room off which led a passage and two doors.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ the man said, folding his paper. He was well spoken and smartly dressed, his white whiskers neatly trimmed, and his wrinkled face creased more as he offered a welcoming smile.
‘Morning,’ Silas returned the affable greeting. ‘I’m here to meet with Lord Clearwater. The name’s Silas Hawkins.’
The doorkeeper put yesterday’s news to one side and ran his finger down a page in the ledger.
‘Ah yes,’ he said, finding the name. ‘Will you sign in, please, Sir?’
Silas wrote his name as legibly as he could. His schooling had been brief, and he was still struggling with the use of an ink pen, but his handwriting like much else, had improved since meeting Archer.
‘His Lordship is meeting with the Director of Productions,’ the doorkeeper said. ‘But he left instructions for you to wait for him in the house if you would like.’
‘The house?’ Silas imagined having to turn around and find a cab to drive him home.
‘The theatre,’ the man clarified. ‘The house is closed just now. They’ve just struck Don Giovani, and we’re dark until the gala, but you’re welcome to take a stall or wait prompt side.’
None of what he said made sense and Silas was buzzing with questions. Why call a theatre a house? What had Mr Giovani done to deserve being struck? Why were there no lights, and what was prompt side? Silas was early, so definitely prompt, but why did he have to wait in a stall? Surely they had seats.
The doorkeeper noticed his confusion. ‘Shall I get Tricky to show you around, Sir?’ He asked. ‘His Lordship did say you’d likely be early. You’ve got time to see the boards.’
‘Yes, please,’ Silas said, wondering what was so special about planks, but thinking it best not to show his ignorance.
The man slapped the counter bell and pointed to a seat.
Silas was about to sit when one of the doors opened, and a teenager appeared. He was smartly dressed, but wore no jacket and, by his features, Silas put him at no more than sixteen.
‘Yes, Mr Keys?’ the lad said, hurrying to the counter and tucking in his shirt.
‘This gentleman is with Lord Clearwater,’ the doorkeeper told him. ‘You’re not busy are you?’
‘Always busy, Mr Keys.’
‘Yes, well I know that’s not factually correct. Take some time away from the stress of playing cards and show Mr Hawkins the boards would you? He has time for a tour.’
‘Certainly.’ The youth turned to Silas, touched his forelock, and chirped, ‘Morning, Sir. You want to come with me?’
The lad was marching towards the corridor before Silas had a chance to thank him and, with a wave to the doorkeeper, he set off to follow.
‘You here about the gala?’ The lad asked, turning a corner and mounting a set of brick stairs two at a time.
‘I’m His Lordship’s secretary,’ Silas replied. ‘What’s your job?’
‘Runner, Sir. Sometimes I help with dressing as that’s what I want to be next. A dresser.’
A dresser was where Mrs Flintwich kept her pans, and where Thomas kept the servants’ crockery. Silas questioned the lad in more detail.
‘Oh, I do the calls,’ he said, taking a turn and running up another flight. ‘Half-hour before curtain rise, fifteen, ten and five. Running from one dressing room to another. I’m in charge of principals now.’
‘Do I call you Tricky?’ Silas asked, already out of breath.
‘If you like, Sir. The real name’s Jake. Just along here.’
‘Thank you,’ Silas panted. ‘Can you slow down?’
Silas wasn’t unfit. His body, weak and thin when he first came to Clearwater, had filled out over the weeks, but he spent most of his time sitting or riding in carriages. He was still learning to ride a horse, but Fecker had only taken him to the trotting stage, and it was hardly exercise.
‘As you wish,’ the boy said, waiting by a door marked “To The Stage. Silence”.
Silas joined him, looking where the brick staircase ascended further.
‘Dressing rooms up,’ Jake said, following his gaze. ‘Offices, costume department, fine carpenters near the roof, entrance to gallery, second-level flies. Next floor up one and down to the scenery dock, heavy carpentry, sub-stage, props, gas room and generators. Above that, crossing to OP and principal working gallery, up to windlass and gridiron.’
Silas wanted to ask for a translation, but he remained silent.
‘We’re going through here.’ Jake had his hand on the door and a grin among his acne. ‘The house is dark right now, Sir,’ he said, ‘but the workers are on.’
‘Will we be disturbing them?’
‘Who?’
‘The workers.’
Jake laughed and gave Silas a cheeky smirk. It was exactly the kind of expression Silas employed when being knowingly mischievous, and although some would find it impertinent, it endeared him to the lad.
‘The workers are lights,’ Jake said. ‘You don’t want to be on stage under the limes, and the follows, it gets real hot out there. This way, Sir.’
He pushed the door, and from the familiar, stark reality of the brick stairwell, Silas entered a world he could never have imagined. He had no idea what to expect from a theatre, except what the papers and Archer had told him; that it was a magical world where anything could happen and where dreams and nightmares alike came true. There was nothing magical about the backstage area, it was more like a construction site. To the left stood a scaffold of planks and iron bars, spiral staircases and platforms, and behind, or rather through the framework, a wall lined with ropes and levers. Everything was draped in the smell of paint and wood.
To their right stood a barrier of canvas scenery, the backs of flats on which were written numbers and words. “A & D, PS, A2, Up 4.”
‘What’s all that mean?’ Silas asked, pointing.
‘Tells the hands where to put the scenery,’ Jake explained, pausing in his trot so he could point out each word as he translated. ‘Aeneas and Dido, the gala piece; prompt side, that’s where we are; act two; upstage, flat number four. All goes with the stage manager’s master layout. This way.’
The false wall continued, and they passed a curtained entrance.
Jake tapped the list pinned beside it. ‘Props check,’ he said as if it meant anything. ‘And here’s the main props table.’
There was nothing on the trestle except trays marked with handwritten labels.
‘Aeneas’ sword,’ Jake said, pointing at the empty spaces. ‘Messenger’s scroll, cup of poison, oh, that’s a beauty. We’re using real gold.’
‘Where are they now?’ Silas asked. ‘Come to that, where are all these carpenters and hands you mentioned?’
‘Like I said,’ Jake replied. ‘We’re dark right now, so props are locked away and most of the men ain’t at work. Least, the craftsmen and seamstresses are upstairs and down, but the stagehands have set act two ahead of a chorus rehearsal, so they’re on a tea break. Just us. Oh, and Mr Hampshire up there. Alright, John?’
Silas craned his neck to look above as Jake was doing. The wall of scaffolding and iron seemed to climb forever until it became one jumbled mess of bars and beams. Someone was waving down, but from that distance, he was a mere blur. It made Silas dizzy just looking, and he dropped his head.
‘Bloody hell.’
Jake sniggered. ‘Sorry, Sir,’ he said. ‘Don’t hear language from gentlemen, mainly just the crew.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m kind of both.’
Silas was comfortable with the lad. Jake reminded Silas of himself at that age, keen, positive and eager to please. He pulled himself up short when he realised he was only a few years older.
‘My apologies,’ he said.
‘No need for that. Down here.’
Jake was off again, trotting along the passage which now sloped gradually towards the front of the stage. They came to the end where a large desk stood beneath shaded lamps. Above was a bank of switches, each one labelled, and near it, comfortable chairs waited in a neat line.
‘Principals resting, and prompt corner,’ Jake explained. ‘Just beyond, that’s the door to the Grand Tier.’
‘The audience is only a few feet away?’ Silas was having trouble placing himself. They had come up and forward from the stage door, but it was difficult to tell how far. His sense of time and direction were distorted.
‘That’s right, Sir,’ Jake said. ‘The door’s always unlocked in case of fire, but luckily we haven’t had one here since fifty-six, not that I was born then. Only known the old girl as you see her now.’
‘The old girl?’ Silas chuckled. ‘You like your job, I take it?’
‘Best job in the world, Sir,’ Jake beamed back. ‘Apart from dressing.’
‘You mean dressing the actors? Like a valet?’
‘That’s it. I ain’t got the talent to be on the stage, but love being behind it.’
‘How old are you? If I may ask.’
‘Seventeen last week, Sir. Been at the House since I was eight.’
‘Eight? What about school?’
‘Life’s a school, Mr Hawkins,’ the lad said. ‘If I can call you that?’
‘You can call me Silas if you want.’ Silas liked the lad’s directness. ‘I am only an assistant like you.’
‘Very kind, Sir, thank you. So, you want to see the stage?’
‘This isn’t it?’
Jake roared a laugh which vanished into the fly tower. ‘No, Sir,’ he said. ‘Oh, this side of backstage is half as wide as the main stage of course, as is OP, but you ain’t seen nothing yet.’
Silas judged the distance from where they stood to the side wall and ropes. It was at least twenty feet.
‘If you want the details,’ Jake said, ‘the stage is fifty feet wide, wings half of that each again, fly tower tops out at one-hundred-and-twenty feet, and there’s sixty feet below us.’
Silas couldn’t imagine it. He looked up again, but his head spun.
‘And if you want more, the curtain weighs nearly three tons.’
‘Blimey.’
‘Through here.’ Jake held back a black drape hung between two flats. ‘After you.’
Silas had seen many new sights since leaving the East End, but nothing prepared him for what he saw. He experienced the opulence of Clearwater House daily and had adjusted to having a bed too large for his needs, his own sitting room, and enough space to bring up an extended family on one floor with rooms to spare, but he had never been lost inside a building as he was now. He had never felt so small or inconsequential either and was disorientated as soon as he stepped onto the stage.
Facing the front, he was met by row after row of plush, red seats in three regimental blocks. More stood behind them, empty beneath the golden sweep of a balcony adorned with crystal lamps. Two more semi-circular balconies tiered above to where the seats were almost vertical, perched beneath a distant arch. The ceiling was blue, the floors and seats red, and the trimming gold. Central to the spectacle was a chandelier, high and bowled, one mass of glass covering much of the ceiling. The chamber was a cave of unimagined splendour, and even under the dull working lights, crystal glittered, and mouldings shimmered. The whole thing was blanketed in a reverent hush and smelt of dusty grandeur.
‘That’s room enough for two-thousand people,’ Jake said, lowering his voice as if he was in church.
‘Fuck me.’ The words escaped his lips before Silas could stop them, but they made his companion snort a laugh. ‘Sorry, Jake,’ he said, unable to tear his eyes away from the auditorium. ‘Never seen anything like this.’
‘Ah, it’s alright’, Jake said. ‘But you should see her when the house is full, and the lamps are lit. I tell you, Mr Silas, you’d think you were in heaven.’
Silas couldn’t even picture it. Until now, the most glittering thing he had seen was Archer’s dining room, but that was just a star in comparison to this firmament. He imagined two thousand people looking back at him, and his knees weakened. He wouldn’t be able to speak, let alone sing.
‘We’re set for Dido,’ Jake said, and the cryptic statement brought Silas back to the real world.
‘What?’ He managed to turn his back to the looming magnificence and found himself standing on the deck of a ship.
‘The opera?’ Jake was grinning.
Maybe it was the sudden change in view from the auditorium to the set, or the change in scale of the house compared to Jake, shorter than Silas by a couple of inches, but until then he hadn’t taken much notice of the boy’s face, only to register that he had acne and not the pox. Suddenly he saw it clearly. Jake had blue eyes and dark hair. His eyebrows rose towards his temples, and his nose was snubbed. Silas was unnerved at the lad’s similarity to himself and his sisters.
‘Sorry,’ he said, realising he had been staring. ‘What’s this ship all about?’
‘That’s act two,’ Jake explained. ‘The back’s been brought down and the drop flown in, so you’re only seeing about half the depth.’
As before, his words were dumbfounding. ‘Can you say that in English, or Irish, if you have any Green-Isle blood in you.’
‘I don’t, Mr Silas, as it happens,’ Jake replied. ‘West End born and bred, me. I was saying, they’ve moved the back of the scenery forwards and dropped in the sky, so this is only half the stage.’
‘Dropped the…?’
The height of the tower skewed his perspective. It was crossed by parallel catwalks at increasing heights, with beams and bars, cloths and weights ascending above. Through them, he could just make out a grid at the very top, threaded with ropes that led through pulleys to the walls below.
Nausea accompanied his dizziness this time, and he instinctively reached for Jake’s shoulder. He looked down and shook his head to clear it.
‘Yeah, gets you like that a few times at first,’ Jake said. ‘You should see what us down here look like to them up there.’
‘I’d rather not,’ Silas grimaced. The last time he had been at that height he had been escaping the Ripper and dangling from a rope over the river. He let the lad go as his balance returned.
‘It’s called the fly tow
er,’ Jake explained. ‘Where the scenery flies off to, and sometimes people. You see that?’
Silas glanced briefly, but enough to show him a contraption of four weights, ropes and wires sixty feet above his head.
‘What is it?’
‘Technology, Sir.’ Jake glowed with pride. ‘Counterbalanced clouds that come down carrying two lads dressed as cherubs. It’s for the end of the show. Spectacular, it is, what with Herr Director calling for flames and smoke from below, and the boys dropping rose petals while the tomb rises. Them barrels up there, they’re the balance weights, about two hundred pounds each and attached by the latest in steel cabling. Amazing trick it is. Apart from that, though, there’s not so much going on up there in this production, but there’s enough, and they ain’t finished rigging yet what with the gala still a couple of nights off. You involved in that and all, Mr Silas?’
‘Yes, in a way,’ Silas said. He looked at the time. ‘Do you know where Lord Clearwater will be?’
‘Forty-four A on the balcony.’
It was a shout, but barely audible. Silas, however, would have recognised the voice from any distance. He sheltered his eyes from the working lights and peered out front.
‘Balcony’s the second one down,’ Jake said. ‘Front middle.’
Silas picked out a shape darker than the deep red around it, and waved.
‘I can hear your every word clear as a bell,’ Archer yelled. ‘I’ll be down immediately.’
Silas waved again, and the figure was soaked up by the darkness.
‘Well, thanks, Jake,’ he said, returning his attention to the runner. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘That’s alright, Mister.’ Apparently, Jake was never without a smile. ‘I like showing her off, but I’d best wait with you until His Lordship gets here. Safety reasons.’
Unspeakable Acts Page 2