New Albion

by Dwayne Brenna

  * * *

  When I returned to the theatre, some time after two o’clock, there was a note on my desk from Mr. Wilton, requesting the pleasure of my presence in his office. I ascended the stairs and found Mr. Wilton at his desk, in his shirt sleeves. “Business elsewhere keeping you away from the theatre, Phillips,” he said, not looking up from his paperwork. “We missed you at the morning rehearsal.”

  “I walked over to Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s lodgings in Bethnal Green,” I admitted.

  “I suspected as much,” Mr. Wilton said. “A detective has been snooping about the place and asking questions. What has Pratt done?”

  “He is accused of robbing his landlady and of absconding without paying his rent.” I was still standing in front of Mr. Wilton’s desk, like an errant schoolboy waiting to receive his punishment.

  Old Stoneface peered up at me. “My advice to you is not to get involved, Phillips. We do not want the theatre dragged into something which is no longer the theatre’s affair.”

  There was a shaft of light entering through the greasy window behind Mr. Wilton’s head, and it assaulted my eyes. “Yes, well,” I said, not really clear what was going to come out of my mouth next, “I’m afraid I have to give notice, sir. I can no longer remain in this theatre after the end of the month.”

  His face drained of colour. “But Phillips,” he said, “we have been together, what, almost fifteen years?”

  “Yes, sir, I know.”

  “Have you been unhappy in my employ? Are you not being handsomely rewarded for your labours?”

  “I have had a letter from my brother in Manchester,” I replied. “He has asked me to return to the family enterprise.”

  “And you have agreed to do so?”

  “I have, sir.”

  His face hardened momentarily. “Then it is settled, Phillips. A man’s word is his honour. I shall be sorry to see you go.”

  Monday, 6 January 1851

  We received word in the theatre this morning that Pratty was apprehended at an address in Shoreditch over the weekend and that he is committed to go before a judge this morning in Worship Street. I requested Mr. Wilton’s permission to have the afternoon off so that I could attend the court proceedings and offer moral support to Mr. Farquhar Pratt. He acceded to my request but not before determining my involvement in the deliberations.

  “Are you testifying, sir?” he asked, his wild eyebrows arched critically.

  “No, sir. I am only there as a spectator.”

  “Good. And I trust you will see to it that the New Albion’s name is not further besmirched in this affair.” He could hardly bring himself to look me in the eye as he said this.

  The judiciary court in Worship Street is a fancy brown stone affair, as solid in its foundation as Justice should be. The interior is of dark wood, dark and brooding as a judge.

  There were not many present to witness the spectacle of an elderly stock playwright’s downfall, and several of those few who sat beside and behind me on wooden benches in the spectator’s area were probably awaiting their own arraignment. There were two young ladies who sat near me, one of whom explained in intimate detail for the bespectacled Judge, who was nonplussed, and the Prosecutor, who was grinning wickedly, the process of administering a threepenny knee-wobbler to a sailor against an archway in Seven Dials. There was one young boy of eleven or twelve who was perhaps a palmer or a stargazer, dressed in swell attire which made him seem twice his age, accompanied by his unkempt, unshaven kinsman. There was also, near the back of the room, a well-dressed gentleman of thirty-five or forty, whom I took to be a swellsman or some such fancy criminal posing as an aristocrat. At one point during the proceedings, the Judge directed his attention to me, asking drily what my business was with his court. Taken aback, I mumbled something about being there as a spectator only, at which point the Bailiff angrily shouted at me, “Stand when you address His Worship.”

  I leapt to my feet and blurted, “Only a spectator, Your Worship.”

  “I see,” the Judge said, his eyes lingering on me. “Here to learn how justice is done?”

  “Yes, Your Worship.”

  “Very good then. You may sit down.”

  Mr. Farquhar Pratt was called to the dock. He was clearly in a state of mental turmoil. He had been divested of his signature greatcoat. His shirt was ripped horrendously and open at the neck; he wore no cravat. His face betrayed a lack of understanding of his immediate circumstances. The light of wit in his eyes was distant if not altogether extinguished. The Bailiff read the charges, and Pratty was asked if he fully understood the nature of the accusations.

  There was a long silence, and when Mr. Farquhar Pratt spoke it was not with his own rich melodious voice but with a voice so distant from him that it could only have been retrieved from his childhood. “I believe I do, sir,” he said haltingly.

  “Where do you currently reside, sir?” the Judge demanded, scrutinizing Pratty’s face over his spectacles with the intensity of hot summer’s sunlight.

  “On Glover Street, sir, in the Green,” Mr. Farquhar Pratt managed.

  The Judge scrutinized him further and then scrutinized a piece of paper on the desk at his fingertips. “You are still living at Mrs. Carmichael’s lodgings in Bethnal Green?”

  Farquhar Pratt grew flustered. “Oh no, sir, not there, sir,” he said, stalling for time. “I have moved from there, sir.”

  “And where do you currently reside?”

  “In the Nichol, sir. Near the Nova Scotia Gardens.”

  The Judge exhaled impatiently and stared at Mr. Farquhar Pratt. “Are you quite well, sir?”

  The words seemed to churn up from Pratty’s belly. “I am in extremis, sir. I have not eaten these three days.”

  “I see,” the Judge replied, betraying no emotion. “There will be food for you in prison. You stand accused of stealing and pawning various furnishings from the house of your landlady, one Mrs. Carmichael. Have you engaged a lawyer?”

  Mr. Farquhar Pratt looked about the courtroom frantically. “I have not, sir.”

  “And how do you answer the charges?”

  “I am guilty, sir.”

  The silence in the court was thick with unsaid words. A somewhat befuddled smile curled on the Judge’s lips as he met the Prosecutor’s gaze. “Then I have no alternative,” the Judge responded, looking over his spectacles, “but to remand you to Westminster Bridewell for a period of six months. Unless anyone is here today who wishes to post a bond for this unhappy gentleman.” The prosecuting attorney looked decidedly unhappy; he had not even had the opportunity to speak to the case.

  At which point I heard the swellsman at the back of the spectator’s gallery rise to his feet. I turned in my seat to have a better view of the man, as did everyone present. The Judge cocked his head at the fellow. “You have something to say, sir?”

  “I do, your Worship,” the man said, his voice rich and well modulated. “Mr. Jonathan Edwards, proprietor of the Standard Theatre, has instructed me to post bond in whatever amount you require. Mr. Edwards has neither forgotten Mr. Farquhar Pratt nor his longstanding service to the National Drama.”

  The two dollymops near me swooned mightily. The Judge, unruffled by the news, said, “Very well, then. Bond is posted at twenty pounds.” He rapped his gavel on the bench in front of him. “Next case.”

  After the proceedings, Edwards’ emissary shook Pratty’s feeble hand, offered Mr. Edwards’ best wishes, and scurried away, leaving Mr. Farquhar Pratt and myself standing on the sidewalk in front of the Worship Street court.

  “Please take my coat, sir,” I said. He was shivering and so frail that he could not have denied me the opportunity of bestowing my coat upon him had he wished to.

  “No need of that, sir,” was his reply. “There is no scandal like rags, nor any crime so shameful as poverty. As the good Farquhar once said.”

  “There is a cafe across the street,” I said, draping my coat over his thin shoulders. “We’ll go inside a
nd have a bowl of soup.”

  “Not for me, sir, but for my wife.” His nobility, even in these dire circumstances, filled me with admiration.

  “I’ll take you home, then, sir,” I said. “We’ll stop at the butcher’s and the green grocer’s along the way.” I was beginning to think that he did not recognize me. His dim eyes did not meet my gaze.

  Then he said, “You are a kind man, Mr. Phillips. A good man.”

  I hailed a hansom cab and helped Pratty to a seat inside, ordered the driver to take us to Nova Scotia Gardens.

  “Blimey,” the oil-capped driver said, “ain’t no gentlemen wot lives in Nova Scotia Gardens.”

  We stopped at a green grocer’s along the way. Back inside the hansom cab, Mr. Farquhar Pratt fell upon some overripe pippins that we were able to purchase, devoured them cores and all. We proceeded through Islington toward Friar’s Mount, then onward to the city’s edge and the Nichol, past a hoarding of the Eastern Counties Railway and a ditch filled with human waste. This stinking broth of contagion gave off an odour so pungent as to force me to cover my nose with my kingsman. Children in ragged clothes were playing near the ditch, hunting for frogs and snakes with which to frighten their sisters, apparently without fear of the railway locomotives which chugged along the tracks nearby. Across the tracks stood a nightman’s house, one of the few houses in the area not of clapboard but of brick, and beyond that smoldered a mountain of garbage, wood, tin, steel, fecal matter, rotting textiles, anything that had not been picked clean by scavengers. This unsanitary refuge heap, I came to learn, is affectionately known as Nova Scotia Gardens. We passed under several arches and tressels as we made our way to Pratty’s abode and, as it was nearly five o’clock and would soon be getting dark, I was concerned that highwaymen or footpadders might well be lurking around each new turn. The cab driver himself seemed nervous; I heard the tension in his voice as he gee’d and haw’d his horse along the route. At last we stood alongside a series of clapboard houses, leaky, rat-infested remnants of the Thirties, in plain view of the Nova Scotia Gardens’ refuse heap. I bade the driver wait for me as I meant to accompany Mr. Farquhar Pratt inside. “Don’t be long.” The driver’s words were uttered through clenched teeth.

  We proceeded inside, where Pratty’s wife lay on the floor, propped against a bare wall, one of Mrs. Carmichael’s stolen blankets wrapped tightly around her as though its intimacy with her aged body were insurance against its being taken from her. Against the wall opposite, another family, a rough-looking young man, his cadaverous wife, and three filth-covered urchins huddled and gnawed on bones, apparently chicken bones although it was difficult to tell. The young husband cast a surly glance in my direction.

  “We are sharing this accommodation with another family,” Pratty said. “Please refrain from mentioning this to the others when you return to the theatre.” Mr. Farquhar Pratt knelt by his wife and produced an apple from the paper bag which the green grocer had stocked for us. She ate with gluttonous fervor. Soon the children of the other family were gathered round, and Pratty distributed the remainder of the vegetables among them, a pippin, a few green tomatoes, and some cabbage. I could not protest this action as the children were obviously as hungry as Farquhar Pratt’s wife. I was only unhappy that I had been unable to give them more.

  After the Farquhar Pratts and the children had eaten, Pratty returned my greatcoat to me, thanked me for my charity, and bade me good night. “These streets are not safe after dark,” he said. “You must leave now.”

  Promising to return soon, I exited the clapboard shanty, assaulted by the stench of the ditch and the dung heap as I shut the door behind me. “It’s about time,” the cabby said as I climbed into the cabriolet. The sun was touching the western horizon, and the trestles and archways threw long and unhappy shadows, as the cabby raced his nag along muddy streets and cobblestones towards Cloudsey Street.

  Tuesday, 7 January 1851

  Having worked late into the evening yesternight in the preparation of Eustace Heywood’s prompt script, I ventured into the dressing room before I left the theatre because I had heard something dropping to the floor, a hairbrush or something. My first thought was that Algernon, the company cat, had gotten into the dressing room or had been left there by mistake, and I intended to let him out into the backstage area to chase mice, as is his usual pastime. Mrs. Wilton claims to be allergic to Algernon, and she frequently complains, if he is left in the dressing rooms, that his hairs have adhered to her costumes and are making her sneeze.

  When I arrived at the dressing room door, which had been left ajar, I realized that I had been mistaken in my impression that I was alone in the theatre. I will not describe in detail what I witnessed. Suffice it to say that young Master Weekes had been stripped of his clothing and was supporting himself against a mirror while Neville Watts, naked to the waist, embraced the young man most passionately. The sound I had heard was of Mr. Watts’ greasepaint tray falling to the floor as Master Weekes was forcibly pushed against the dressing table. I must have gasped involuntarily at what greeted my eyes, for I saw Mr. Watts in the mirror open his eyes to meet my gaze. Even with his eyes open for some time, it seemed as though Mr. Watts had not entirely registered my presence. I ahemed loudly, and he ceased his manipulations of young Master Weekes and was still, his slender person almost covering and concealing the young man’s body. It was as if he thought he might camouflage himself and disappear if only by standing stock-still. Mr. Watts’ eyes never left mine, as he fixed his gaze intently upon me in his mirror. At last, I came to my senses and stepped backward into the hall, shutting the door upon them.

  This morning, Neville Watts was uncharacteristically the first actor in the theatre. He arrived alone and before the other actors had appeared to begin the morning’s rehearsal. He came directly to my desk at the side of the stage, where I pretended to be engulfed in my prompt script. He looked grey; he clearly had not slept, and he was wearing the same suit of actorish black that he had worn on the day previous. “I want to apologize,” he murmured. “You witnessed something last night that I had no intention of letting anyone witness.”

  “Such conduct is objectionable,” I said, without looking up, “inside the theatre or outside of it.”

  “I know,” he said. His eyes were drained of all expression excepting vacant abjection. “I have endeavoured to rip these feelings from my heart for some time now. But to no avail.”

  “You have abused the trust of young Master Weekes and of his father and mother, “ I went on. “It is conduct unbecoming of a master-apprentice relationship.”

  “I know.” Mr. Watts’ habitual haughtiness had deserted him entirely; I thought for a moment that he would dissolve in tears in front of me, but he fought back the emotion.

  I looked at him sharply. “What you have done is also illegal and punishable in a court of law.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I only beg that you will tell no one. My career would otherwise be at stake.” A new thought struck upon his addled, sleep-deprived brain. “Unless you have already informed on me.”

  “I have told no one,” I said.

  “Not even Mr. Wilton?”

  “I have told no one, sir.” Abomination though it was, abomination in the sight of the Lord, it struck me that perhaps Neville Watts had no more control over his predilections than I or any other man. He had perhaps not chosen to bestow his affections upon boys instead of ladies, and his situation was all the more pitiable for that sad fact. I secretly thanked heaven that my affections did not lie that way, and I also thought that I might one day require lenience for my own transgressions. “I am prepared to forget the entire matter,” I heard myself say, “and to let it rest. But I would make one demand.”

  Mr. Watts steeled himself. “What is your demand?”

  “That you will refrain from using this theatre as a site of your romantic interludes.”

  “I will, sir,” said Mr. Watts, his relief apparent. “I am currently in negotiations for mor
e private lodgings. Away from the prying eyes of my landlady.”

  “The young man is already debauched,” I added, “but I must ask that you treat him with respect. And that you find a more suitable object for your affections.”

  Neville Watts’ expression was downcast. “I will try,” he said, at last, “but my affections run as deeply as any man’s. I will try.”

  I looked at him sharply. “You must do more than try.”

  “I will.” At that moment, he seemed sure of himself.

  “Then you have my word,” I said, “that this will remain a private matter.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Phillips. You are a true gentleman.” Like a recently kicked dog, Neville Watts slinked off toward the dressing room, and I remarked to myself and to my journal how closely the position of stage manager at a minor theatre sometimes resembles the position of headmaster at a private school.

  At any rate, I trust that I have helped to precipitate a desired change in Mr. Watts’ character.

  * Chapter Sixteen *

  Wednesday, 8 January 1851

  I have had no opportunity to return to Mr. Farquhar Pratt’s lodgings these past two days, owing to the fact that we are rehearsing morning, afternoon, and evening for this Friday’s opening of Hector, the Pirate of the Spanish Main. Eager to please Mr. Wilton, Eustace Heywood has rewritten the last act three times already. Our new stock playwright works like a machine, through the night, and he arrives at the theatre every morning the same chalky color as he was the morning previous, scenes in hand, and sober. The actors are pleased with Mr. Heywood’s diligence, particularly Mrs. Wilton, who loses no opportunity to compare Heywood’s machine-like efficiency with our former stock playwright’s very human fallibility.