Carver's Truth

by Nick Rennison

  ‘I regret to say that Dolly is still missing.’

  ‘Pity, she was a pretty thing. She could have taken Kitty Devonshire’s place. And she would have been an improvement. In terms of looks, anyway.’

  ‘Perhaps she will come calling upon you again.’ Adam could only hope that this might be the case. One of the reasons he was happy to join the Grand’s company was his belief that Dolly might make another attempt to gain employment there. Another was his conviction that Cyril Montague, opium-addled though he was, knew more than he was telling.

  ‘Perhaps.’ The theatre manager seemed to have lost interest in the subject of Dolly once he realized that she would not be available to play in The Spectre Bridegroom. ‘Perhaps she is no longer even in York.’

  ‘That is true,’ Adam admitted. ‘We cannot be certain that she has stayed in the city.’ He was, however, more or less sure that the girl was still in York. Where else could she have gone? Back to London? She had been so eager to leave the metropolis that it seemed unlikely she would have returned there so swiftly. And, when she had sought a job at the Grand, Timble had at least held out the possibility of future employment. No, Adam was convinced that the dancer was somewhere close at hand. Working at the theatre himself would give him the ideal opportunity to track her down.

  ‘What of Quint here?’ he asked Timble.

  The two men turned their attention to the manservant, who had wandered over to the open door to the street and was scowling at passers-by.

  ‘There is always room for another pair of hands to build sets and move props,’ the theatre manager said. ‘If Mr Devlin were prepared to pitch in and help.’

  ‘Oh, Quint will be happy to do his bit,’ Adam replied.

  ‘Ain’t I wanted to sing “Villikins”, then?’ Quint had heard his name and come back to join them.

  Adam shook his head. ‘There is a job backstage for you,’ he said. ‘Although, if you wish to entertain your fellow workers with “Villikins”, you must feel free to do so.’

  ‘I spent ’alf the night recallin’ two more verses to mind,’ Quint said indignantly. ‘You telling me that was all a waste of time?’

  ‘Alas, I fear so.’

  ‘Don’t you go fretting yourself, Mr Devlin,’ Timble said. ‘There’ll be plenty of chance for your talents to shine in the future. Everyone at the Grand gets their turn eventually. Why, I’ve even been in front of the lights myself once. Back in ’68. Porter in the Scottish play, I was. Nobody else to do it so on I go. Forgot most of my lines and had to make them up as I went along.’

  Still chatting, the theatre manager took a grumpy Quint by the arm and guided him in the direction of the props room. Adam was left to smoke a cigarette in the lobby, but he was not alone for very long: Alfred Skeffington soon bustled through the door. He hailed Adam as if he was a conquering hero returned from battle.

  ‘So, Timble tells me you are coming to join us!’ How did the old actor know he had said yes to the proposal? Adam wondered. There was no time to ponder the question at length. Skeffington was in full flow. ‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,’ the actor said, leading Adam into the maze of narrow passageways and criss-crossing corridors that were hidden backstage at the Grand. ‘And sisters, of course. May it never be said that I would forget the ladies.’

  ‘Timble was pointing out your difficulties since Mr Bellingham left and—’

  ‘Ah, the wretch,’ Skeffington interrupted, briefly furious, ‘and, to think that I plucked him from the obscurity of a penny gaff in Bradford and allowed him to bestride the stage here in York. Ingratitude is indeed, as the Bard says in Lear, sharper than a serpent’s tooth.’

  ‘I shall endeavour to fill the gap in your ranks that his departure has created, Mr Skeffington.’

  ‘I am sure you will, my boy, I am sure you will.’ The actor-manager made an effort to slap Adam on the shoulders but he was too short. Instead, he gave the young man a painful blow in the small of the back. Adam winced but Skeffington, not noticing his discomfort, continued to discourse cheerfully as they ventured ever further into the theatrical labyrinth. ‘Timble informs me you are a Varsity man, sir. But that you did not take your degree. Some difficulty with the authorities, perhaps?’ Adam peered down at the actor whose expression was now that of a tolerant uncle prepared to overlook the minor indiscretions of a youthful nephew. ‘Some undergraduate scrape which landed you in hot water and required your relocation to another town?’

  ‘Not exactly, Mr Skeffington.’ Adam could not decide whether he was annoyed by this obvious curiosity or amused by it. ‘I was not sent down from Cambridge, if that is what you mean. If anything, I rusticated myself. Let us say that, in the aftermath of my father’s death, it was not possible to maintain the position to which I aspired.’

  Skeffington nodded as if this made everything clear. The two men sidestepped a large drum and a pile of discarded clothing that were blocking the way and continued to walk.

  ‘Look out, Mr Carver!’ the actor shouted suddenly.

  Adam had been close to colliding with a huge sheet of copper which was suspended on ropes hanging down from the upper reaches of the theatre. He jumped nimbly to one side.

  ‘For thunder,’ Skeffington said, in answer to the young man’s unspoken question. ‘It’s a rare piece that does not benefit from a good thunderstorm. “Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You cataracts and hurricanes, spout till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks.” Lear again, Act 3, Scene 2.’

  The diminutive actor had launched himself so loudly into his Shakespearean quotation that he had attracted the attention of a stagehand, who appeared from behind a piece of scenery with a querying look on his face. Skeffington waved him away imperiously and guided Adam out of the surrounding confusion. A few steps further, and Skeffington suddenly darted forward, pulling back a red curtain. To Adam’s surprise, the two of them emerged onto the stage of the Grand. He realized that he had completely lost his sense of direction during the meanderings backstage.

  ‘I understand from Mr Timble that you have never donned the buskin before,’ the old actor remarked. ‘You are taking your first, faltering steps to the green room.’

  Adam admitted that this was so.

  ‘Do not for a moment imagine that you are setting out on a path of flowers,’ Skeffington said sternly, as if Adam had just claimed that appearing on stage was something anyone could do with ease. ‘No – it can be a briery way, my boy, and thorns of misery can spring up beneath the feet of the unsuspecting wanderer.’

  Adam endeavoured to look as serious-minded a prospective student of acting as he could.

  ‘However, the fundamentals of our noble art are easily learned,’ the actor went on. ‘Excellence is the product of experience, but competence can be achieved through the exercise of a little intelligence. I shall demonstrate a few of the simplest expressions.’

  Skeffington walked towards the footlights and swung round to look at Adam. He adopted the stance of a man about to confront an audience. ‘Head down, shoulders rounded, face cupped in hands.’ The actor followed his own instructions. ‘Raise shoulders up and down thus.’ His face still covered, he began to shrug his shoulders vigorously. After a few moments, he dropped his hands and beamed at Adam. ‘Emotion conveyed . . . grief!’

  ‘Very affecting, Mr Skeffington,’ Adam said.

  ‘It is, it is,’ the actor agreed. ‘But here is another. See if you can put a name to it.’ He opened his eyes wide, made his mouth into as nearly circular an ‘O’ as he could and placed both hands, fingers extended, on his cheeks.

  ‘Fear?’ Adam ventured.

  ‘Horror,’ Skeffington said, sounding slightly disappointed by the young man’s obtuseness. ‘I suppose the two are close relations of one another. However, enough of the tired tricks of
an old trouper. It is time for you to demonstrate what thespian skills you possess. Perhaps we have another Garrick in our midst, about to make his debut at Goodman’s Fields, hmm?’

  ‘I very much doubt it, Mr Skeffington.’

  ‘We shall not know until you step before an audience. But what attitude should you strike now?’ The actor put his finger to his chin like a man in a caricature of thoughtfulness. ‘I have it. Joy! Give me joy, Mr Carver, joy unbounded!’

  Adam, feeling intensely uncomfortable and hoping that no one was close to witness this audition, twisted his face into the best simulacrum of ecstatic happiness he could manage. It was, he feared, perhaps closer to idiocy than joy.

  Skeffington made a grunting noise that suggested he was of much the same opinion.

  ‘Ah . . . interesting, interesting,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should try another emotion. Anger. Show me anger, my boy.’

  This was easier. Adam was surprised by the facility with which he could pretend to rage.

  So too was his mentor. ‘Very good, sir, very good,’ Skeffington enthused, as the young man snarled and grimaced on the dimly lit stage. ‘Eyes rolling, breast heaving, teeth gnashing. Excellent! I can see that we shall not miss Mr Bellingham in the least.’ Adam continued to glare into the stalls. ‘Although perhaps we shall have to find you roles a little more farouche than those our decamping friend undertook. You may relax now, my boy.’

  As Adam returned his features to their normal state, Skeffington began to circumambulate the stage at a slow pace. It was surprising, the young man thought, how much kingly dignity so short a figure could project. The actor looked like a conqueror awaiting the submission of those he had conquered.

  ‘The theatre is a noble calling, Mr Carver. Let no one persuade you otherwise.’ Skeffington wagged an admonitory finger as if Adam had just been arguing for the essential depravity of the stage and those who worked on it. ‘A general prejudice exists in the breasts of parents and preceptors alike against our profession. We are rogues and vagabonds, they say.’ Skeffington paused in his pacing and shook his shaggy head mournfully. ‘It is true that many unhappy players have drowned their souls in fermented liquors or expired before their time in workhouse dormitories. But others have rolled along Piccadilly in their own carriages and conversed intimately with the finest in the land.’ Skeffington resumed his circling of the stage.‘We humble followers of Thespis must seek for the greatest amount of instruction,’ he went on, apparently addressing an audience situated in the upper reaches of the theatre, ‘combined with the largest amount of amusement, the highest utility blended with the highest refinement and . . .’ Here, Skeffington waved his hand vaguely in the air, inspiration briefly deserting him. ‘But you take my meaning, I am sure.’

  ‘I do indeed, sir, and I shall strive to be worthy of your finest aspirations.’ Skeffington’s speech was temporarily uplifting. For a moment or two Adam fully believed what he had just said.

  The feeling did not last, however. His idealistic glow was already beginning to fade a little when a swarthy man with long, greasy black locks poked his head around the curtain at the back of the stage and spoke to Skeffington.

  ‘The costumes for the wedding guests are here. Timble told me to let you know.’

  The actor waved his hand airily and the head disappeared as suddenly as it had materialized.

  ‘For The Spectre Bridegroom,’ Skeffington explained. ‘Our next production culminates in a wedding feast. A scene of lavish ostentation and tumultuous activity. York will rarely have seen its like.’

  ‘I do not believe that I have met that gentleman as yet,’ Adam remarked, nodding towards the curtain. It would be a good idea, he thought, to put as many names to faces at the Grand as he could.

  Skeffington struck his hand to his brow. ‘A thousand pardons, my boy. I did not have the grace to introduce you.’

  ‘You did not have the time.’

  ‘No, that is true. Like Puck in the Dream, he was here and gone “swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow”. His name is Venables. He plays the secondary villains.’

  ‘I believe there may be others in your company I am still to mee?’

  ‘There is my wife, of course. Mrs Frances Eleanor Skeffington. Nell to her multitudes of admirers, and my noble helpmeet. There’s Kitty Devonshire. A delightful young woman but shoulders like a champagne bottle. All droop and slope. Wardrobe has a terrible time with her.’ Adam was about to remind Skeffington that Kitty had gone but the old actor remembered himself. ‘Of course, the wretched girl’s gone, hasn’t she? Embarked upon connubial bliss with that rogue Bellingham.’ He continued to count off the members of his company. ‘Then there is Miss Delgado, a lady of Spanish origins. She is still with us, I hope. She takes the breeches parts. Her lower limbs look lovely in the trousers, although I must confess her enunciation of her lines is not always understood by every member of the audience.’ Mr Skeffington paused. ‘Nor indeed by every one of her fellow actors. But we are working on the problem.’

  ‘And what of Mr Montague?’

  ‘Ah, poor Cyril.’ Mr Skeffington said. ‘A man of uncommon talents but never able to keep his hands on the pounds, shillings and pence that his genius earns him. The bailiff and the broker’s man are as familiar to him as the butcher and the baker are to those of us who lead better-regulated lives.’

  ‘You have known the gentleman in question for some time?’

  For a moment, Adam thought the actor might not answer his question. Skeffington gave the young man an appraising glance, clearly curious as to the reasons for it. Did he think that Adam shared Cyril Montague’s sexual tastes? If he did, it seemed to be of no great concern to him.

  ‘Let me see now. I first saw poor Cyril in a pantomime in Richmond many years ago,’ Skeffington said. ‘The Enchanted Fairy of the Island of Abracadabra, if I recollect correctly, was the title of the entertainment. He was the second clown and did little but steal sausages and fall over. None the less, even in that tawdry role, he showed a spark of genius.’

  ‘So you hired him for your company?’

  ‘Ah, no. Not then. I am talking about the early fifties. I had no company at the time. I was merely a toiler in the vineyard of Drury Lane. But I followed his career with interest. I watched his spark blaze forth in triumph. I watched it fizzle like a firework and die. When I learned that he was anxious to leave the Great Wen, I wrote to offer him employment here in the north.’

  ‘And he came, of course.’

  ‘Like “a reeking post, stew’d in his haste, half breathless.” Lear once more, Act 2, Scene 4.’

  ‘He was anxious to claim the job—?’

  ‘The years have not been kind to Cyril. Rewarding roles were beginning to elude his grasp. He had been given a glorious opportunity to play the Dane and he had been very nearly hooted off the stage. He could barely remember a line.’

  ‘You knew of his problems?’ The actor inclined his head in stately agreement. ‘And yet you were prepared to put him on the stage here?’

  ‘As I have said, young man, Cyril Montague was once possessed of a spark of genius. He has it still, although he has made every effort to extinguish it.’

  Adam wondered what Skeffington’s true motives were in inviting Montague northwards. Kindness towards a fellow actor fallen on hard times? Perhaps, although the old man was running a business as much as an artistic venture. He could not afford to be sentimental. And Timble had made it clear that Cyril was a liability. Adam’s own conversation with him had shown that the man would be a difficult colleague with whom to work.

  ‘When did he arrive in York?’

  Skeffington shrugged shoulders that seemed too narrow to support the weight of his mighty head. He was growing bored with the conversation. ‘He came for The Miller of Mansfield. So . . . just over a month ago,’
he said. ‘But no more of poor Cyril. Let us return to our exercises in the emotions. Show me your jealousy.’

  * * * * *

  After a draining hour miming a variety of emotions for Skeffington, Adam had decided on a walk to clear his head. His mind now hard at work turning over recent events, he had not noticed that he had turned into one of the city’s market areas. On either side of him were fruit and vegetable stalls, their holders bellowing their wares. It was late in the day, the crowds had thinned out and the market men were eager to dispose of their final goods. One waved a cabbage at him and made it clear that it was an unbeatable bargain; another invited him to inspect his rhubarb and assured him that he would find it impossible to locate its like anywhere else in Yorkshire.

  Adam nodded and strolled on. His eye was caught by a ragged urchin who was idling ahead of him. Half a dozen radishes had fallen from one of the stalls and were lying on the cobblestones. None looked very appetizing but the boy, first stooping to pick them up, thrust one of them into his mouth with greedy relish. The stallholder saw him and shouted at the child, who ran off, clutching the remaining radishes to his chest as if they were rare and costly delicacies.

  Adam moved on, still thinking of the chorus dancer and what might have happened to her. At the corner, where a narrow, cobbled alleyway joined the market, a man was playing a tin whistle with more enthusiasm than skill. His cap, lying flat on the pavement, contained three small coins and what looked to Adam like a brass button.

  ‘Penny for a tune, sir,’ the man said as Adam approached.

  Adam reached into his pocket and took out the only coin that came to hand. ‘I have but a halfpenny,’ he said. ‘You need only play me half a tune.’ He threw the halfpenny into the man’s cap and continued to walk.

  He had now emerged from the market altogether. Looking to his right, he could see a narrow street of medieval buildings. Most seemed to contain butchers’ shops – the cobbles were stained with blood, and the smell of meat and offal wafted along it. He turned to the left and began to make his way towards the Minster, which he could see rising above the city like some fortress over its fiefdom.