This time, neither Garrick’s name nor the humble apology seemed to change Acorn’s attitude. ‘Do you take me for an imbecile, sir?’
What an extraordinary remark to make, thought Jack. ‘Of course not, Mr Acorn.’ His bowels began to loosen – a sure sign that something nasty was about to happen.
‘You have played me for a fool, and that I cannot forgive.’
This was too much. Outraged bluster was needed. ‘Sir, your tone is offensive. You make wild accusations, for what reason I cannot conceive. Would you that I left? I am sure David Garrick would not treat me so!’
‘Ha!’ The laugh was mocking. ‘I do not think that Garrick will treat you any differently, for he has never heard of you.’
‘This is preposterous!’ Jack was about to carry on in the same vein, but the words never emerged. Acorn held aloft a piece of paper. It was Jack’s letter to Digges.
‘It is clear from this letter to Mr Digges that your story was a total fabrication.’
Jack tried one more outburst. ‘How dare you read my private correspondence!’ As he spoke the words, he knew the gesture was futile. The flame of outrage is difficult to fan when you are defending a tissue of lies. Acorn had just pissed on the last remaining embers.
‘Be quiet! I have had enough of your huffing and puffing.’ For a moment, he toyed with the letter in his hand. When he spoke, his voice was calm, his tone unpleasant. ‘I do not mind a liar and a scoundrel. I have met many in my life, of which you are just the latest. Your crime is to have deceived me and my partner. The whole company believes you to be a friend of Garrick’s. If the truth were known, then my standing in the eyes of my players would be greatly diminished. This I cannot afford with Thirsk snapping at my heels. I do not want to be a laughing stock. That I cannot and will not allow.’
‘Honestly, Mr Acorn, I will not tell another living soul.’ Even to Jack it sounded pathetic.
‘I know you will not. You see, your gravest error was to delude Mr Bowser. He would not forgive you. The man who makes a fool of Lazarus Bowser is a man who cares little for his life.’
The warning left nothing to the imagination.
Acorn dropped the letter on the table. ‘This is what I propose. You will leave my house as soon as you have gathered your possessions. You will appear on stage tonight. Fortunately, it is our last performance of Hamlet. When the applause dies away – hopefully tonight there will be no repeat of yesternight’s laughter – I do not want to see your face again. That means you will leave Newcastle for ever. And do not entertain any thoughts of joining that rogue Thirsk. That will be no protection against Bowser.’ The thought hadn’t even entered Jack’s spinning head.
‘Where am I going to stay the night?’
Acorn took some coins from the table drawer. ‘Here is enough for a night’s lodging and for a coach in the morning.’ Why are people always giving me money to go away? Jack briefly pondered. ‘Where that coach takes you, I do not care. You will tell no one that you are going. When you do not appear tomorrow morning, I will say that you received a letter from London. They can draw the obvious conclusion. If you are still within the town walls tomorrow night…’ He let the unspoken threat hang in the air. Without a word, Jack took the money and left the room.
At first, Bessie did not answer his light, persistent knocking on her door. She knew who it was. Why should she answer? His feeble efforts the night before had made her feel silly, unwanted, unfulfilled. What had made her doubly disappointed was that Jack had been rather good on the previous occasions. Her expectations thus raised, he had singularly failed to match them. But now the knocking had ceased and she was cross that he had given up so easily.
Jack was nearing his room when Bessie called to him down the corridor. Putting a warning finger to his lips, he bundled her unceremoniously back into her room. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ she started indignantly. He tried to hush her. The last thing he wanted was for Acorn to catch him with his daughter. Another scene and Bowser might still be brought in. ‘This is a strange way to apologise.’ The anger was rising in her voice.
‘Bessie, I do not have time to beg your forgiveness with sweet words. I am here to bid you farewell.’
Bessie’s expression changed to one of disbelief. ‘But why?’
‘Your father is sending me away.’ He swiftly related the conversation with Acorn. He found it odd to discover that he was telling someone the whole truth. That had rarely happened since Oxford. Now he had nothing to lose.
Bessie’s response was a mirthless snort. ‘That is so like my father to believe your ridiculous story about Garrick.’
‘And you did not?’ Jack said with genuine surprise.
‘Of course not.’ He looked hurt. ‘Why are men so gullible? If you tell them what they want to hear, they will believe it because they want to. Women may be the weaker sex, but we are not as weak in the head as men.’
Jack had not come to hear a diatribe on the mental inadequacies of his gender. Still abashed at her total dismissal of what he thought was his brilliant Garrick deception, he said grumpily, ‘Well, in that case you will be best pleased that I am departing.’
‘No, I am not.’ This was said with a warmth that had been absent from any of their previous conversations. Not that they had actually got round to saying much. ‘I must see you again before you leave.’
‘I cannot. Your father would kill me if I appeared here once more.’
Bessie thought for a moment. ‘How long is the musical interlude in the middle of the play?’
‘About half of the hour if the orchestra plays well. Five minutes if they do not and the audience grows restless.’
‘Well then, that is when you can slip away. Cut across Nuns Field.’ She went over to the window. ‘If you are worried that you might be seen, climb up the tree out there. The branches are very convenient.’ Jack had the impression that this manoeuvre had been carried out before. ‘You need have no fear about my father. He will be at the theatre during the performance and if he does not see you, he will merely think you are keeping out of his way.’
‘What about the cook and that bloody maid? She must have handed over my letter to your father.’
‘The cook leaves after dinner and I will send Hilda away for the evening.’
Jack was still nervous about the idea. Were the inherent risks worth it? ‘It will not leave much time.’
‘Time enough.’ She grinned suggestively. ‘And I promise you a farewell you will never forget.’
He needed no further persuasion. ‘Right, I will come.’
VIII
‘Did you not speak to it?’ Tyler Courtney as Hamlet enquired.
‘My lord, I did, but answer made it none…’ Jack spoke the lines with an excited nervousness. As he had wandered aimlessly round the cold, filthy, noisy streets of Newcastle that day, he had had time to contemplate his immediate future. The wheels of his thespian career had fallen off and he had been thrown into a ditch from which he could see no way of clambering out. He could not return home. His father had disowned him and, like most good Christians, he would not welcome a repenting sinner returning to the fold unless he could gloatingly remind Jack of the heinous errors of his ways. Besides, Jack was damned if he was going to admit defeat. So where was he to head the next day? Edinburgh was out of the question, too. Anyway, he swore he never wanted to see that man Digges again. ‘…yet once, methought, it lifted up its head, and did address itself to motion, like as it would speak…’ Eventually, he had decided to go where the first coach out of town the next morning took him. Fate would have its head. Barnard Castle. He had never heard of the wretched place. That was the last time he would trust to fate! At least he would be safer, if poorer. His one regret on leaving Newcastle was that he would never get the chance to persuade the fair and desirable Catherine that his charms were worth succumbing to.
During the play, the only thing that had kept him going was the thought of the potentially dangerous liaison with Bessie
. What delights did she have in store for their final romp? ‘…but, even then, the morning cock crew loud…’ Despite standing in front of this large gathering, he was finding it increasingly difficult to suppress the hardness that was imperceptibly expanding in his nether regions. ‘…and at the sound it shrunk in haste away, and vanished from our sight.’ Jack blushed a touch. Bessie had said something similar to him last night, though not phrased so poetically.
Hamlet looked doubtful. ‘’Tis very strange.’
Not half as strange as the day I have just spent, thought Jack, as he launched into his next speech. After leaving Acorn’s house, he had gone to great lengths to avoid anyone who might know him, and had arrived at the theatre only minutes before the performance began. At the entrance, he noticed that the billboard had various deletions. Scrubbed out were THUNDEROUS EFFECTS and MR FLYFORD, RECENTLY FROM THE NEW CONCERT HALL, EDINBURGH. A short career, indeed.
Having successfully negotiated the rest of Scene Two without any further sexual thoughts, Horatio, along with Marcellous and Barnado, was about to take his leave of Hamlet when a voice from the audience proclaimed loudly, ‘What a travesty!’ The distraction had an immediate effect. Instead of the three actors saying in unison ‘Our duty to your honour’, the words came out like cracks of erratic musket fire.
‘The Bard will be turning in his grave.’ This was the voice from the audience again. Jack could not help the feeling of déjà vu.
Unlike Digges in a similar situation, Courtney stopped. Jesus Christ, all he has to do is utter one more line and Jack and the others can get off the stage. Instead, they just stood around like unwanted guests at a wedding.
‘This is not high tragedy, this is low melodrama.’ Through the semi-darkness, across the candlelit edge of the stage, Jack could make out, standing on the benches, a stocky man in a fashionable powdered wig, long dark coat and a lighter coloured, knee-length waistcoat. As Jack’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light beyond, he noticed the man’s most distinctive feature: ridiculously thick eyebrows, which almost met above the bridge of his nose. And the voice; as clear and resonant as a church bell tolling in a quiet village. He was certainly no stranger to speaking in public.
At last, Courtney spoke. ‘The only low thing I can see in here, sir, is you.’ This brought some appreciative laughter from the benches and round the gallery. Tonight’s audience had not yet consumed enough ale to be obstreperous. ‘The only theatre where you may witness a performance to equal this one is Drury Lane. Therefore, I suggest you take the next coach to London.’
‘I have no need, Mr Courtney. And neither do the good citizens of Newcastle. If they will just make the short journey down to the Moot Hall, they will see the true quality of Shakespeare. Our performance of MacBeth will commence in but half an hour.’
Jack had never seen Crichton Thirsk, but now he did not need anyone to tell him that it was the rival theatre manager standing behind the candles. For damnable cheek, this performance took some beating. The crowd around Thirsk moved uneasily. At that moment, Jack was brusquely pushed to one side. Acorn strode to the front of the stage. It was plain that he was seething. ‘Get out of my theatre!’
‘Ah, what character is this? Such a black rage. Methinks Othello has wandered into the wrong play.’ This time the laughter was on Thirsk’s side.
‘Thirsk, you are a charlatan, a liar and a blackguard! If you do not leave my theatre this instant, I will throw you out myself.’
Jack could not believe that he was seeing Acorn’s emotions so out of control. Gone was the cool, supercilious, calculating man who had ruthlessly dissected him that morning. The Acorn that stood in front of him now was literally quivering with fury. And the audience was loving every minute of this confrontation. For sheer drama and entertainment, Hamlet could not compete.
Thirsk remained totally unruffled. ‘I will leave peacefully.’ There was a groan of disappointment. The crowd wanted more. ‘First, however, I would like it to be made known to the gentlemen and ladies present that the admission price for my production of MacBeth at the Moot Hall is only a shilling.’ An appreciative murmur rippled along the benches. ‘I believe that to be half the cost that many of you have paid to witness this rubbish.’
Even in his extremely agitated state, Acorn could see that this could lead to the disappearance of his audience, his backer and his theatre. ‘Ninepence! Everyone who has paid more will receive the excess monies back at the end of the play.’ This produced cheers.
Thirsk stroked his chin with a stubby hand. ‘Sixpence.’ A gasp this time. Like a branch that has reached breaking point in a strong wind, Acorn snapped. He leapt from the stage and clattered his way through the seating to where Thirsk was standing. Accompanied by cries of ‘A fight, a fight!’, Acorn grabbed his tormentor and dragged him towards the entrance door at the back of the theatre. From his vantage point on stage, Jack could see the early scuffling. As the spectators rose from their seats to get a better view, he lost sight of the warring managers. Judging by the noise, Thirsk was starting to defend himself. The door burst open and the protagonists and much of the audience spilled out into the darkness. The actors were left stranded on the stage. They were now the spectators.
It was Acorn who emerged the victor. He strode back into the theatre, his coat dishevelled, and acknowledged the cheers of those who followed him in from outside. The “hurrahs” were taken up by the ones who had remained behind. Flushed with triumph and more composed than a few minutes before, Acorn mounted the stage. He let the applause continue and then made great play of calling for quiet. When silence was finally achieved, he paused, then spoke. ‘Dear patrons, you certainly receive your money’s worth at the Theatre in the Bigg Market.’ Loud cheering and laughter. ‘The sport that you have just witnessed, though not mentioned in tonight’s programme, is gratis.’ More raucous laughter. ‘I will make good my promise. All those who paid over ninepence will be reimbursed.’ Cheering. ‘What is more, I will pay for a drink for every person gathered here now.’ The cacophony that greeted this offer was deafening. To prove the point, he pulled out a bag of coins from his coat pocket and dangled it above his head.
When peace was restored: ‘With your permission, I will change the order of tonight’s entertainment. First, we will quench our thirsts, then we will have our musical interlude before continuing with the second half of Hamlet.’ No one seemed concerned that leaving out a quarter of the play might ruin the story. Certainly not Jack. He was out of the theatre more quickly than a hound that’s picked up a bitch’s scent.
IX
The ground was bone hard as he ran across Nuns Field. The moon illuminated his path before flitting behind a cloud and racing out the other side. In his haste, he stumbled on the frosty white grass, grazing his knee. Cursing, he hauled himself up and made Bessie’s tree without further mishap. His animal enthusiasm took him swiftly up the first two branches. Above him was Bessie’s room, a candle in the window. That was the pre-arranged sign that all was clear. It was not needed. Jack knew exactly where Acorn was and would remain. He reckoned he and Bessie would have a clear half hour.
It was only when he was leaning over the branch that nestled close to the window – and his direct route to the pleasures Bessie had promised him – that he froze. His lustful anticipation had taken him far beyond the height that his head could stand. He was breaking out in a cold sweat. The ground seemed to rear up towards him, only to sink away far, far below him. In the name of the devil, why had he agreed to climb the tree? He had always been afraid of high places. Had not his sister teased him unmercifully about his irrational fear after she had rescued him from the lowest branch of their old apple tree? What now? He clung like a limpet to the trunk of the tree, unable to move either downwards to safety or the short distance to Bessie’s room.
Jack heard the window open. He could not see Bessie; his eyes were so tightly closed they were starting to hurt. ‘What are you doing? Hurry before the room becomes cold.’
&nb
sp; ‘I cannot. I am…’ He was reluctant to admit his weakness.
‘What?’
‘I am… stuck.’
Bessie snorted and put her hand over her mouth to stop herself laughing, which only made it worse.
‘’Tis no laughing matter,’ Jack said irritably. ‘I might fall and harm myself.’ This was met by a burst of uncontrolled giggles. Wiping away the tears that streamed down her cheeks, she enquired if he was intent on spending the rest of the evening making love to the tree. Jack knew he had to do something. His fingers were freezing and his grip was beginning to loosen.
‘If you insist on staying there, you will not want these.’ Out of sheer curiosity Jack had to open one eye and squint. He blinked. He could see Bessie’s lovely naked bosom above the window ledge. It is amazing how swiftly desire can conquer fear. Jack was through the window in a trice.
It was when their combined passions were at full tilt, and Bessie’s yelps of joy were at their height, that Jack could have sworn he heard the unmistakable thud of the front door shutting. Jack stopped abruptly. ‘What?’ Bessie screamed in annoyance.
‘Ssshh! Listen,’ he whispered viciously. A murmur of voices came drifting up from far below. Another door was opened, then shut, followed by silence. ‘It must be your father. What is he doing back here?’ This was the last place – and position – he wanted Acorn to find him in.
Bessie reluctantly disengaged. Throwing on her nightgown, she crossed to the door and pulled it slightly ajar. She listened for a few minutes before closing it. By this time, Jack had frantically fought his way into his breeches.
‘It is my father. I do not know who he is with. Look, you must go. If he finds you here, the consequences do not bear thinking about. When he thought you were useful to him, he was happy for you to bed his daughter, but now…’
Sweet Smell of Murder Page 5