‘Safety?’
Jake laughed and looked at the tower. ‘Mr Hampshire?’ he called.
‘Aye?’ A distant echo.
‘Can you show Mr Silas a drop? Downstage right’s safe enough.’
‘Aye.’
Silas was about to remind Jake that his name was Hawkins when someone shouted ‘Below!’ A second later, a bag of sand landed a few feet in front of him with a loud thud. The boards shuddered, and Silas leapt back, swearing.
‘And that’s only a lightweight,’ Jake said. ‘Thanks, John,’ he yelled up, and the sandbag was hoisted away. ‘You can imagine the damage one of them lead weights would do. In fact, they had one fall on an alto in a Handel. Killed her in a downbeat, hence the new steel cables. Before my time, of course. Since then, anyone using the stage has to have a demonstration of the dangers. There’s traps, flies, and don’t get me started on this new electric lighting. We still use some oil and gas, but if one of them incandescent thousand-watters gets anywhere near you, you burn. Anyway. I’ll hang on here while you wait. I like talking to you.’
‘I haven’t had much chance to say anything,’ Silas muttered, alarmed at the falling weight but amused by Jake’s enthusiasm.
‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ the lad replied. ‘Most of the time, I’m only allowed to say yes and shout the calls.’
He and Silas had more in common than similar features. Jake was also openly direct and cheery. Every time he spoke Silas warmed to him more.
‘Did your mam and dad mind you not going to school?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Jake replied. ‘I’ve been brought up by my granddad. You met him at the door.’
‘Mr Keys?’
‘Good memory, Mr Silas.’ Jake winked. ‘It’s a nickname ’cos he keeps the keys, see. Everyone’s got a nickname. I’m Tricky, Mr Hampshire is Dropper, and we got four Georges back here; Hell one and two, Stage and Gods on account two work under-stage, one where we are, and George Gods is master flyman up there. Granddad got me work here when I was eight, not official, mind, but when the old call boy gave it up, I stepped in. I was twelve by then. Not a bad place to live, eh?’
‘You live here as well?’
‘That I do. We both do now Nanna’s dead. Just me and him in the room off the stage door, and he’s getting on, as you saw.’
‘Is that why you want to be a dresser? So you can support yourselves when he retires? I imagine it pays better.’
‘Retires? He ain’t going to do that. You don’t retire from the House, Mr Silas. No. Granddad’ll battle on until he drops at his desk, but yeah, I’d like to earn a bit more.’ He tugged at Silas’ sleeve and jerked his head upstage.
At Jake’s prompting, Silas sat on a powder keg.
‘I have my life planned out, see?’ Jake said, dropping his voice. ‘Work my way up by being a dresser starting off with Madame LaRache in costume, learn about styles. I can already sew good, and then go into making my own. I mean, clothes for other people, but I’d make them. I help the seamstresses upstairs, even drawn my own designs. I’ll open a shop one day.’
‘You’re good with a needle?’
‘Bloomin’ best,’ he said with pride. ‘Least, for a man of my age. They’re always calling on me to stitch something at the last minute. I love it.’
‘You seem to love everything,’ Silas said, smiling.
‘Hey, life’s not a rehearsal, Mr Silas, you got to make the most of it. Find something you love, work hard, enjoy it, don’t hurt no-one else and you’ll sail through. Go the other way, you know, grumpy and that, and your life might feel like it lasts longer, but it’ll be over before you know it.’
The smile on Silas’ face remained as he regarded the young man with awe. ‘How do you get to be so wise?’ he asked, impressed with the boy’s attitude.
‘How did you get where you are?’ was the instant reply.
‘Same as you,’ Silas admitted. ‘At sixteen, I was on a coach from Westerpool to the city. No money, no possessions but, like you, I have someone to support. Two sisters. And now, four years later, I’m assistant to Viscount Clearwater. Hard graft all the way.’ He was not going to tell the boy the exact nature of his previous work.
‘Nice one.’ Jake dropped to the floor unexpectedly and sat with his legs crossed drawing them in and clutching his arms around his knees. ‘What do you think about the gala then?’ he asked out of the blue. ‘I mean, what’s it all for?’
‘You mean the Foundation?’
Jake nodded, keen to chat, but Silas wasn’t too sure how much he should say.
‘What do you know about it?’ he asked.
‘It’s raising money to help renters in the East End,’ Jake said, as if it was an everyday subject.
‘You know about that?’
‘Course I do, mate.’ He laughed. ‘What the thing’s for makes no difference to me. Getting to work with Cadwell Roxton and Signora Campanelli is what it’s all about. They’re a far cry from what goes on over east, but folk’ll pay a lot of money to see them. Does that kind of stuff really go on?’
Silas was having trouble keeping up. ‘You mean, in the East End?’
‘Yeah. I know girls do it, plenty of them ’round Five Dials and Soho where the arty set lives. Sometimes they try and get up to it in the stage door porch as I know some lads do, but with toffs. I didn’t know poor people paid for it.’
The naivety was alluring. ‘You’re not poor yourself then?’ Silas ventured as a way to change the subject. If he told Jake everything he knew about renting in the East End, they would still be on stage when the gala began.
‘We don’t have much money if that’s what you mean,’ Jake shrugged. ‘But I reckon I’m rich in this.’ He threw up his hand and circled it above his head. ‘I mean, if anyone asks, I can say my home’s got seventy-one toilets, a staff of four hundred, three bars and a cafe. I live in the heart of the city too. Prime location, free music from the best in the world, and I get paid a bit. Signor Broccolini gave me a good tip after doing only one Sullivan aria in a concert, he’s usually over at the Savoy. Mr Bentham’s another tipper, but it ain’t the money so much. If you’re talking poor in life, or quality of life, then me and Granddad are the wealthiest buggers in the metropolis.’
Silas was winded by the lad’s fluency, despite his rough accent. His outlook was delivered with such confidence, Silas thought he had met his equal on all levels. Except one; experience. He wouldn’t wish his East End past on anyone.
He was about to compliment Jake for his attitude when he was distracted by a dull thud beneath the stage. He felt it rather than heard it, but it brought Jake to his feet. In one deft move, he had turned and was sitting shoulder to shoulder with Silas on the fake keg looking towards the cavernous auditorium.
‘Watch this,’ he said and stamped his foot in reply to the thump from below.
Silas watched, wondering what to expect, but he didn’t have to consider for long. Part of the stage vanished before his eyes, lowering itself to leave a gaping hole three feet square. He looked at Jake for an explanation, but the lad nudged his elbow and nodded towards the opening.
A top hat appeared followed by a pair of broad shoulders from which were draped a perfectly cut tailcoat of ocean blue. A jaunty arm pressed a silver-topped cane to the ground beside long legs, one bent behind the other, resting on its toes. The gradual appearance was accompanied by the grinding of ropes on wood somewhere beneath the pit which, when the apparition was complete, became once again part of the stage.
‘Basic trap lift,’ Jake whispered as the figure turned.
‘Afternoon, boys.’ Archer raised his topper and bowed. He was as animated as a child with a new toy. ‘This is going to be fun.’
Three
His juvenile sense of enjoyment was just one
of the things about Archer that Silas loved more each day. Since the gala performance had been announced two weeks ago and Cadwell Roxton booked to appear, his enthusiasm for life had hit a peak so far unseen. He was, as Silas’ mam used to say, as giddy as a schoolboy, which is how he was behaving now, shuffling his feet in a quick dance and offering his hat for a tip.
‘Your meeting’s over, I take it?’ Silas said, standing.
‘It is, and very positive it was too, and mercifully short. Did Fecker bring you?’
‘He did, but I sent him home. Wasn’t sure how long we’d be.’
‘Another minute. Hello, Jake.’ Archer shook the lad’s hand.
‘Hello again, My Lord.’ It was a mischievous, Cockney-sounding greeting gilded with a title and accompanied by a sharp nod of the head.
‘Jake’s been telling me about the theatre,’ Silas explained.
‘You’ve had the tour then?’
‘Part of it,’ Jake said. ‘You want to go into the flies? See the windlass? I ain’t shown you the sloats yet.’
‘But he keeps speaking this weird language.’
Archer laughed. ‘We’re in a different world, Silas. Unfortunately, we must return to the real one. We have guests for dinner tonight, and before that, lunch. Will you come, Jake?’
There was another thing. The way Archer latched on to people and accepted them as equals no matter their station.
‘Kind of you, Sir, but I’ve had me sandwich, and we’ve got the chorus in shortly. I’ve got to work.’
‘That’s a shame. Next time. Shall we go?’
Jake led them from the stage, back through the wings and down to the stage door. There, they signed out and thanked the lad, Silas giving him a sovereign as a tip, because he liked him so much.
‘Very kind of you, Mr Silas,’ Jake said, wide-eyed. ‘If you want to see the rest of the house, just call by. We’re always here.’
They left the theatre and turned towards Five Dials, picking their way through the vegetable market where the well-to-do placed orders and the working class haggled over prices. The stallholders were not dissimilar to those Silas knew in Cheap Street, but their language was polished and their aprons cleaner. Passing baskets of flowers, bouquets and arrangements, Archer ignored the calls of, ‘Penny a bunch,’ but bought two carnations from a child selling the flowers on the corner of Mercy Street. He broke the stems and placed one in Silas’ buttonhole before fixing the other to his overcoat.
‘How was it?’ Silas asked.
‘Everything is going perfectly,’ Archer replied. ‘Apart from Signora Campanelli.’
‘That’s the other singer, right?’
‘One of them. She’s booked to sing opposite Cadwell, but insists she doesn’t need a rehearsal. Cadwell, being less of a diva, expects at least one with her, but she’s not having it.’
‘Just one? Thought they’d need more than that.’
‘Quite. Anyway, Mr Bursnall is dealing with her manager as they know each other well. She’ll come around in time, I’m sure of it. The gala is the talk of the town, and nothing must go wrong. Did you enjoy your tour?’
‘Yeah, he’s a nice lad.’
‘Agreed, though he’s not on our crew.’
He meant that Jake wasn’t homosexual, and Silas wondered how he knew. ‘Did you ask him?’
‘Certainly not. I’d have embarrassed the boy. No, I can just tell. Shall we go to the Grape Vine?’
‘Is it costly?’
‘Does it matter? It’s my treat.’
‘Well, it’s never going to be mine. I’m happy with a sausage from a stall, but you’re the boss.’
Archer stopped and tugged at Silas’ arm, pulling him into a recess.
‘You often call me that. You don’t think of me as merely your employer, do you?’ he asked, concerned. ‘You must never think that.’
There was another thing to love; the way Archer was confident one moment and vulnerable the next. His vulnerability only showed when the subject was love or friendship, and it was adorable.
‘Course I don’t, Archie,’ Silas said, resisting the urge to kiss him. ‘In fact, I never feel like I work for you.’
‘But, you don’t feel like I’m keeping you?’
‘If I didn’t want to be here, I’d be off. You know that.’
He meant it teasingly. He couldn’t envisage any reason to leave Archer.
‘Yes, well, that’s true enough,’ Archer smiled. ‘I’m lucky to have you.’
‘Ha! If anyone’s lucky around here, it’s me.’
‘I want to kiss you.’ Archer leant in as if about to whisper something in Silas’ ear.
‘Want to sneak into an alley and get your dick sucked?’ Silas whispered back.
‘You are such a slattern.’
‘Be anything you want, mate.’ Silas used his renter voice knowing it aroused Archer. ‘But you’ll have to stop using fancy words.’
A soft brush of lips on his ear, Archer’s arm through his and they turned back to the street.
‘Best leave that for later,’ the viscount said.
He let go of Silas just in time to greet an acquaintance with a doff of his hat, stopping a few yards later to examine a costumier’s window display.
‘That’s what your new friend Jake wants to do,’ Archer said, pointing to the fancy designs.
‘Yeah, he told me. And you say he’s not queer.’
‘You don’t have to be on-board to be a tailor.’
On-board, part of the crew, a captain’s mate, they were all euphemisms Archer employed to keep his meaning away from prying ears.
‘You like him, don’t you?’ Silas enquired, examining a dress covered with glass beads.
‘I like his outlook on life,’ Archer replied. ‘I don’t go for his looks, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Didn’t mean anything apart from what I said. I like him too. Very personable.’
‘Yes.’ Archer sighed and stood back. ‘I wish there was some way to help them. I’ll have a word with Lady Marshall. I believe the lad is interested in clothing design, and she knows everyone.’
They continued their walk.
‘You can’t help them all,’ Silas said. ‘On which note, how much have you shelled out for this play?’
‘It’s an opera, and nothing.’
‘Eh?’
They crossed a narrow but busy street and entered Five Dials, so called because five thoroughfares met at one junction in the centre of five blocks. The area was known for its theatres, warehouses and drinking establishments, but it was also the home of one of the city’s fancier restaurants much beloved by actors and artists.
‘I’ve spent nothing,’ Archer continued, once they were away from the clattering carts, ‘because of Marks’ tactical planning.’
‘What’s he got to do with it?’
Marks was Archer’s solicitor and member of the Clearwater Foundation.
‘He’s a slippery old devil,’ Archer said, paying a compliment. ‘I was expecting to pay for renting the opera house, and that’s a pretty penny on a Saturday night, but Marks found a way of closing one trust and opening another.’
‘You’ll have to explain.’
Although he was officially Archer’s private secretary, his involvement in his charitable work was more hands-on than business related. It had been Silas’ job to find a building in Greychurch for the Foundation to use as a hostel. He had done that with Fecker’s help, and now he had few duties other than to advise from a renter’s point of view and liaise with the would-be clientele, the fellow rent boys from his previous life. He did this privately with Archer who then translated the information into acceptable language and presented it to the committee.
‘In a nutshell,’ Arc
her said. ‘Marks closed down my father’s old trust and transferred its finances to mine. Some ancient law of charitable inheritance that, frankly, I didn’t quite grasp, but it’s legal. We were able to use what was left in the trust for the theatre hire and house payments, though I am paying the admission for half the audience.’
‘You’re too bloody generous, you are,’ Silas mumbled.
‘One must lead by example,’ Archer said. ‘We are asking patrons to pay through their pince-nez for their tickets and make a donation on top.’
‘Yeah, alright. This it?’
They had arrived at The Grapevine, a three-storey brick building on the corner of two streets. Its windows were leaded, its awning green and, from the outside, it looked like any other West End bistro.
Inside, however, was a different matter, and Silas understood why Archer had insisted he wear his best suit.
Central to the restaurant was ‘the island,’ a circular bar with row after row of liqueurs and spirits, every bottle neatly arranged and backed by a perfectly polished mirror. The bar was mahogany, as were the stools against it and the wood panelling. The lighting was subtle, catching glass and silver, giving enough for the diners to see by, but also lending an evening atmosphere even in the middle of the day.
No sooner had they walked into the heated foyer than a liveried attendant was at Silas’ side, helping him out of his coat and greeting Archer like a long-lost relative.
‘We have your banquette as requested, Your Lordship.’ The man bowed. ‘We trust you are well.’
‘I am, thank you, Daniels,’ Archer replied. ‘My assistant, Mr Hawkins.’
‘Welcome, Sir.’ The attendant bowed again.
Silas wondered if he would ever adapt to being treated this way. He hoped not. He enjoyed the pretence of being a gentleman more than the respect the façade gave him, but even more, he enjoyed wondering what people would think of him if they knew his real background. The way Daniels was behaving, he doubted the man would bat an eyelid, and although his manners were impeccable, he probably used them on every customer no matter if they were aristocrat or actor.
Unspeakable Acts Page 3