‘Forget what?’ The voice was cool. Acorn stood in the doorway.
Southby took it in his stride. ‘I was telling young Mr Flyford that the theatre here is a good stepping stone in his career. I was telling him he will learn much from yourself and Mr Courtney.’
Acorn’s expression of suspicion changed to one of modest pleasure. ‘Well, let us continue Jack’s schooling and return to the stage.’
The ale had begun to work on Jack. He threw himself into his role as Horatio with gusto. Unfortunately, his frequent efforts to catch Miss Balmore’s eye failed frustratingly. When the rehearsal ended, Jack was keen to make his mark. Acorn was again helping Miss Balmore from the stage. Emboldened by the drink, the effects of which had not worn off, Jack called to Acorn so all could hear. ‘Mr Acorn, I was wondering if we could utilise a device that David… David Garrick mentioned to me on one occasion.’
Acorn’s interest was immediate. And as Miss Balmore was now standing next to him, she had little choice but to listen also. ‘What is that, Jack?’ Acorn asked, all obsequious smiles.
‘Well, he told me that to create the effect of thunder, he had some wooden planks nailed to the floor along the back of the stage. Then he had a man push a wheelbarrow containing lead shot over the planks. He assured me that the results were most frightening and dramatic. I just thought that it might work well before the Ghost appears. Create some tension.’
Acorn threw his head back and laughed. ‘Bravo, young Jack! A piece of inspired thinking. If the great Garrick has used such a clever contrivance, so will we.’ In fact it was Digges, but Jack knew it would sound better transferred to Garrick. ‘I will have it done this instant. And we will advertise the fact. Sorry, my dear,’ turning to Miss Balmore, ‘I must leave you and make arrangements now for we open tomorrow night. However, I hope I will see you later.’
Catherine Balmore smiled sweetly. ‘I am afraid that you will not as I have been asked by Captain Hogg to accompany him to a musical evening at Alderman Hedley’s.’
Acorn couldn’t hide his disappointment. However, he mustered a gracious bow before marching off, shouting instructions as he went. Serves the silly fool right, thought Jack. He is far too old for Catherine. ‘But I am not,’ he muttered under his breath as he followed her to the dressing room. As there were other actors milling about, he waited outside for her to change. When she reappeared, he attempted to engage her in conversation. ‘You think my idea for the thunder is a good one, Miss Balmore?’
Her beautiful eyes gazed firmly into his. ‘But, sir, I thought it was Mr Garrick’s idea, not your own.’
‘Ah, yes, that is strictly true. Yet it was all my own idea to use it in Hamlet. ’Tis a good idea, do you not agree?’
‘If it works, I will take my hat off to you.’
Jack couldn’t help himself. The drink, the desire, what you will. He reached for her bosom. ‘I wish you would take off more than your hat.’
Miss Balmore let his hand rest on her breast for a moment then gently pushed it away. ‘Mr Flyford, I think you will find what you so obviously seek from Mrs Trump.’ With that, she slipped past him without a sound.
Hell and damnation! What had he done? It was not meant to be like this. Catherine Balmore was a heavenly creature. Curse the ale! His boorishness was unforgivable. Gone were the chances of winning the lady’s approval, her affection and a place in her bed. He felt sick and suddenly very lonely.
VI
Jack was in better spirits as he stood outside the theatre the next day. He was admiring the billboard, which proclaimed the evening’s entertainment. It was not HAMLET, nor the musical interlude, nor even the promise of THUNDEROUS EFFECTS that caught his eye. In bold letters across the middle ran the words: MR. FLYFORD, RECENTLY FROM THE NEW CONCERT HALL, EDINBURGH, MAKES HIS DEBUT. He, Jack, was a leading attraction! That would make Digges laugh. In fact, the letter he had penned to Digges last night would, he was sure, bring much merriment to the roguish actor. Bessie had made her usual appearance and had soon found ways to banish thoughts of Catherine Balmore from his mind. After she retired to her room, Jack had felt inspired to write to his mentor about all that had befallen him since his hasty departure from Edinburgh. His description of how he had duped Acorn, Bowser and the rest of the company with his Garrick tale would particularly delight Digges. Before leaving the house, he had given the letter to Hilda to send on the midday coach. Digges would receive it within the next few days. Jack would eagerly await the reply.
‘I had better watch my back.’ Jack swung round to see Tyler Courtney standing behind him. ‘And I thought I was the reason why the public flock to this theatre.’ Courtney was a lot taller than Jack, which helped to create a presence on stage. He still kept his youthful looks, which made a mockery of his thirty-nine years. And he was always immaculately attired in fashionable clothes and an expensive and dashing array of wigs. In fact, the antithesis of Jack.
‘Oh, of course you are, sir. I am sure this is only Mr Acorn’s way of making the company sound even grander.’
‘Mr Thomas Acorn is very adept at drumming up business whatever it takes.’ The smile had no warmth. ‘Are you nervous about tonight, young man?’
Jack shrugged his shoulders like an old trouper. ‘Not at all. I am confident I can play my part boldly.’ The truth was that he was petrified every time he stepped onto the stage yet, in this case, so much had happened to distract him since his arrival in Newcastle that he had hardly had time to worry about the opening night.
Courtney gave him a quizzical look. ‘You are the most fortunate of actors, for I always go through the most terrible agonies. I believe that without fear beforehand, I could not perform as superbly as I do.’
‘I suppose I do feel the occasional pang of worry,’ Jack conceded.
Courtney clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I am relieved to hear that you are mortal after all. I am sure that even your great friend Garrick has had a few moments of fear. Now, you had better come and ready yourself for your debut and I will do my utmost to live up to the standards you have come to expect from Garrick and Digges.’ Jack glanced up at the handsome face to see if he was jesting. There was no mischievous twinkle in the eyes. It only confirmed the opinion that Jack had already formed over the last few days: that Tyler Courtney was a fine actor, a pleasant, if egocentric, man, but exceedingly serious. Boring even. He reminded Jack of a beautifully gilded clock. Wind him up before an audience and he would stun the senses. Yet off stage, it was as though the inner workings had been removed. It still looked wonderful, but there was nothing of any interest inside.
Jack changed quickly and fled from his chattering fellow actors to seek a quiet spot in the wings. He wanted to be alone, to collect his thoughts and run through Horatio’s words in his head. He tried to fight the familiar loosening of the bowels and the trembling emptiness in the stomach. If he did not concentrate, nerves would get the better of him. He reminded himself of the unfortunate time he went on stage at the New Concert Hall and his entrance line disappeared from his head without a trace. Seeking inspiration from Digges, who was awaiting his cue, Jack had looked appealingly at the great man. All he received in return was a furious scowl. This only fuelled a wilder panic – the bone-dry mouth, the manically staring eyes and the uncontrollable wobbling of the legs. Suddenly, the embarrassing silence was ripped asunder by a rumbustious fart from the audience. The laughter that erupted gave Digges enough time to loudly whisper Jack’s words, and when the jollity subsided, the play continued as though nothing had happened.
Much was riding on tonight. A spirited performance would further bolster Acorn’s exaggerated faith in him. A poor one, and Acorn might start to question the credibility of his story. The “thunderous effects” would also add to his prestige.
‘Oot me way,’ said a gruff voice. Jack stood aside and let Tunkle, the theatre handyman, who was pushing a large wooden wheelbarrow, pass. In it were balls of lead shot. ‘Bloody stupid,’ the man muttered. Tunkle was always mi
serable, a state of mind which he had been born with some fifty years before. Every task he was given was carried out with copious quantities of ill grace. Why Acorn had chosen Tunkle to push the wheelbarrow was beyond Jack. Tunkle was small and scrawny, the wheelbarrow big and cumbersome. With much sighing and huffing, Tunkle positioned the wheelbarrow behind the back curtain, where several planks had been fixed at intervals across the width of the stage. Jack hoped the cracking of the effects would be loud enough to drown out Tunkle’s gasps and curses.
Turning from Tunkle, Jack saw Catherine Balmore approaching. Her high lace collar accentuated the plunge to the top of the low-cut bodice. With so much cleavage on display, it would take a very stony-hearted Hamlet not to fall for this particular Ophelia’s charms. Jack’s heart certainly gave a little flutter at seeing her again, though he felt some trepidation as she might still be angry. He was immediately reassured by the smile she flashed at him.
‘Miss Balmore.’ Jack spoke her name hesitantly. How could he put into words how sorry he felt for his behaviour?
She could see that he was struggling and she raised a dainty hand. ‘There is no need to say anything, Mr Flyford. I can see regret written all over your face. Let us say that it was the fault of strong drink.’
‘Yes, let us,’ Jack said gratefully.
‘Good. There is no more to be said.’
Though his smile of relief was genuine, he was finding it difficult to look contrite while his eyes kept slipping down to those wonderfully rounded breasts. It was to be his last pleasant experience of the night.
Jack made his entrance with Marcellus, played by young Mr Bright. They were joined by Francisco, the far-too-old and limping Mr Whitlock; and Barnardo, the deaf but amiable Mr Thrapp, who was forever missing his cues because he failed to hear his fellow actors. Jack’s heart was still thumping, and he croaked his first line. Someone from the audience shouted for him to speak up. By the time the conversation had turned to the subject of the Ghost, he had managed to find his full voice. It was to be at each appearance of the Ghost – Mr Whitlock’s nephew, Septimus Spong, wearing a long nightshirt and nightcap, the significance of which was lost on everyone save Acorn – that Tunkle was to push his barrow. The Ghost entered at the right moment. Marcellus called out, ‘Peace, break thee off. Look, where it comes again.’ Barnardo did not hear Marcellus, and in the silence that followed, the only sound that could be heard were Tunkle’s blasphemies behind the curtain (on which was painted the castle battlement) as he tried to push the barrow over the initial wooden plank. First came a low thud, followed by two more, and then, as Tunkle gathered pace, cracks of realistic thunder reverberated round the theatre. The applause and shouts of wonder from the audience were spontaneous. Tunkle, panting loudly, came back again after some enthusiastic prompting from Acorn. The noise was deafening, which meant the actors had to yell their words above the din and, because they couldn’t hear each other, they all spoke at the same time.
That was when the perspiring Tunkle tripped. He and the wheelbarrow careered headlong into the backdrop and succeeded in pulling the entire curtain down. His momentum carried him straight towards Mr Whitlock, who hadn’t the agility to move out of harm’s way, and was bumped off the front of the stage into the orchestra pit. The interior of Elsinor crashed to the ground as the barrow veered through the flimsy structure before tipping over and emptying its contents. The lead shot rolled noisily about the stage while more alert members of the troupe rushed around frantically trying to pick it up before any further damage could be caused.
As the pandemonium spread, Jack saw, out of the corner of his eye, Acorn stand on an unseen ball of shot and his legs swing unceremoniously roofwards. At that moment, amid the chaos on stage and bellows of laughter from the highly entertained audience off it, the only thought that came to Jack was that maybe Newcastle wasn’t such a good place to be after all. This impression was later given further credence when, the disastrous performance preying on his mind, he had failed miserably to rise to the occasion when Bessie had made her regular visit to his bedroom. She had left in frustrated high dudgeon.
VII
The house was quiet, which made Jack’s descent of the stairs sound like the creaking of an old vessel being tossed around in rough seas. Yet if he was lucky, he could make it to the safety of the street without being seen. After last night’s fiasco, he felt that to remain in Acorn’s house much longer would be to seriously overstay his welcome. Fortunately, he had managed to evade his host after the cancellation of the performance. However, it was only a matter of time before the manager caught up with him and expressed his views on the way Jack’s suggestion had turned Hamlet from a tragedy into a comedy within a few seconds.
He crossed the hallway and his hand was upon the front door knob when a voice snapped behind him. ‘Mr Flyford!’ Jack stiffened, pulled an agonised face and slowly turned. Acorn stood at the parlour door. ‘Pray, may I have a few moments of your time?’ The question was rhetorical.
Jack stood uneasily before Acorn. No proffered seat. Gone was the ‘Jack this’ and ‘Jack that’. More worrying still was the look that Acorn wore. The last time Jack had seen that cold, piercing stare was on the first night that he had entered this room. All right, a little idea had gone wrong. Accidents will happen. Yet this was no way to treat a friend of Garrick’s. He had repeated the story so often that he was starting to believe it himself. If Acorn got too heavy-handed, Jack would tell him so. Acorn crossed over to the table. He picked up a newspaper and thrust it aggressively at Jack. ‘I think you might find this of interest. You will see it is a copy of the Edinburgh Courant which has come into my possession.’
This was an unexpected turn. Jack took the newspaper with some reluctance. His eye caught the words New Concert Hall.
Yesternight, the New Concert Hall in the Cannongate opened its doors once more after its recent closure due to the unruly behaviour of the public. The company again performed the Beggar’s Opera with Mr Digges portraying the character of Captain MacHeath. On his appearance, the applause was the most universal that was ever heard. Such was the attraction that there was no space for one more person to enter into the hall.
The Kirk is much annoyed at the reopening of the New Concert Hall. The company of players has been denounced as rogues and vagabonds. From the pulpit, the Reverend Dodds has accused Mr Flyford, the actor who was attacked on the stage during the unfortunate disturbance, of being a licentious and perverted son of Satan. Mr Flyford is believed to be no longer in the town.
Jack did not have to read any more. The shutters that had obscured his view had been torn away and the light began to stream in. The bastard! The bastard had used him. Now that he remembered it, it was Digges who had encouraged him to chase Mollie Dodds. When the rebarbative cleric ran amok, Digges had been the one with the presence of mind to whip him out of the theatre. Digges had taken him directly to a convenient hiding place. Digges had got him a seat on the coach at such short notice. Digges had the letter of introduction ready. Digges must have planned the whole business: Jack’s courting of Mollie, then getting word to the old windbag that he had been tupping his wife. This in turn instigated the riot which, followed by the inevitable condemnation by the Kirk, exhorts everybody to rush off to the New Concert Hall to see what all the fuss is about. And a full theatre means money. And money means debts can be paid. Or some of them. The rest would go straight into, and out of, Digges’ pocket to pay for his extravagantly hedonistic style of life. What an idiot Jack had been not to realise what was happening! God, he had trusted the man. Was this the West Digges who could do no wrong?
‘Well, sir, an explanation if you please.’ Jack was jolted out of his disillusioned thoughts.
‘Sorry?’ he asked stupidly.
‘I demand to know the reason why you were attacked.’
‘A misunderstanding,’ stammered Jack.
‘A misunderstanding!’ Acorn repeated incredulously. ‘You were assaulted on stage, you were d
enounced from the pulpit as a degenerate—’
‘No, only licentious and perverted,’ Jack corrected.
‘And you say it was a misunderstanding! What, pray, was misunderstood?’
Jack did not like Acorn’s accusing tone. ‘Dodds came storming into the theatre because he was under the impression that he was being cuckolded by my good self. Of course, nothing could have been further from the truth. As the son of a canon of the King’s church, I could never bring myself to lay beside the wife of a man of the cloth, whatever his denomination.’
Acorn’s eyes narrowed. ‘This Dodds seems to have had no doubts.’
‘Blinded by fury. The wrong man. Digges told me afterwards that he believed the filthy culprit to be the viola player in the orchestra who, I must admit, bears a passing resemblance to me. Plucking more than his strings!’ Acorn appeared to be wavering. Now the time seemed right to bring in Garrick and reassert his position. It would help to put Acorn back in his place. ‘As a result of this appalling error, Digges was keen that I should not become embroiled further. That is why he despatched me south. He said that he had made a solemn oath to David Garrick to look after me and he would take it upon himself to clear my name but, for the time being, it would be best if I left Edinburgh until tempers had cooled and reason been restored. I apologise, Mr Acorn, if I did not lay the full facts before you and Mr Bowser. The truth is that the memories of that awful night are still too fresh.’
Sweet Smell of Murder Page 4