by Deryn Lake
Sir Gabriel muttered at his elbow, ‘Good lord, I do believe that Samuel Foote has just come in.’
John turned and looked, seeing a small, limping figure dressed in a suit of bright vermillion making its way towards the fountain. A series of rather amusing features which included a tilted nose, a pair of lively eyes and a definitely humorous mouth were crowned by a short grey wig with tight curls on either side. John’s mind flashed back ten years to when he had seen the great actor appear as a woman called Mrs Cole, a Covent Garden madam who had been converted to Methodism by a preacher, namely one Dr Squintum, also played by Foote. At the end of the show John had been asked to attend a delicate young woman who had fainted through laughing so much. He himself had felt a tremendous aching of the ribs, which had lasted all the following day. That Dr Squintum was based on the famous squinting Methodist, George Whitefield, and Mrs Cole on Jenny Douglas, the most infamous of all the madams in Covent Garden, had only added to the hilarity. John had thought him one of the funniest men he had ever seen in his life and now felt an overwhelming urge to speak to him.
The small figure was approaching the fountain and a ripple of applause rang out from the cognoscenti in the Pump Room. John bowed and Sir Gabriel acknowledged the actor’s arrival with a slow nod of his head.
‘I suppose I’d better have a slurp of the revolting stuff,’ Samuel Foote announced to the world in general. He proceeded to gulp from the glass and then said ‘Urrgh,’ which endeared him to John immediately.
The serving woman looked displeased. ‘It’s very good for the spleen and—’
‘I know, I know,’ interrupted the actor. ‘Makes your urine less sour and cures both warts and the pox.’
Sir Gabriel looked grave and said, ‘My good Sir, is that a fact?’, his voice solemn but his lips atwitch.
Samuel Foote looked up at the man’s great height and suddenly, by bending his body over and reassembling his facial features, became Mrs Cole.
‘Oh yes, Sir. I tell that to all the gentlemen who come to see my girls. It’s a right cure-all, this magic water.’
John’s father gave a boom of laughter and said, ‘Oh come now, Mrs Cole, I can hardly believe that.’
In his role, the actor bobbed a curtsey. ‘You must think what you will, Sir.’ Then a second later he had straightened and said solemnly, ‘Excuse my levity, Sir. I merely jest. Allow me to introduce myself. Samuel Foote, at your service.’
Sir Gabriel bowed a little lower. ‘Mr Foote, I know who you are and can assure you that I have adored your performances ever since I first saw you in Tom Thumb and The Historical Register. If I may be allowed to comment, Sir, it is your rollicking sense of humour coupled with a pair of roguish eyes that makes you such a splendid comedian.’
Samuel Foote bowed in return. ‘I cannot receive enough praise, Sir. A poor actor fellow draws the breath of life from a constant stream of it.’
His face was impish as he spoke, but John felt that there was a certain element of truth in what the brilliant Mr Foote had just said.
He spoke up. ‘Allow me to present to you my father, Sir Gabriel Kent, a great patron of the arts. While I, too, have loved each performance you have given. I think you are the finest comedian alive today.’
The little man visibly blossomed. ‘Well, gentlemen, I take this as a great compliment. I presume you have come to the Hotwell for the social side as well as for your health?’
‘Indeed,’ answered Sir Gabriel with enthusiasm. ‘And what of your good self?’
‘I am appearing at the Playhouse over by Jacob’s Well. It is a robust little place. Do you know it?’
‘I believe I do. Is it by Brandon Hill?’
‘In that direction, yes. Its actual address is Limekilns.’
‘And what play are you performing?’ asked John.
‘An old piece, I fear, but very funny. It was written by my associate John Hippisley and is entitiled A Journey to Bristol.’
‘We shall come and see it this very night,’ Sir Gabriel announced with conviction, and John nodded in agreement.
Having perambulated in the Pump Room and listened to the music for a while, John and his father sallied forth along Dowry Parade. Here were the pretty shops that John had spied earlier, including an apothecary’s business, which was packed with people, mostly invalids, judging by their grim-looking faces. John raised his expressive eyebrows and moved on to the hat shop, where he bought one that would delight the heart of his daughter, Rose. Fashioned in straw, its emerald ribbons and tiny flowers were clearly the work of a remarkable milliner, and the Apothecary wondered how many such tradespeople currently worked at the Hotwell, providing for the needs of the thriving crowd of visitors who came to drink the water and to be seen there.
Irish Tom had not been called upon that day and had also spent his time wandering through the streets and gazing at the sights of the Hotwell. But by half past five he had the coach round at the hotel’s front gates, watching as Sir Gabriel, very grand in a swirling black cape with diamond clasps and an old-fashioned but very fine three-cornered hat, made an exit. He was followed by John, far more up-to-date in his new long, light overcoat and soft-brimmed felt hat. Not too sure of the direction, the coachman turned to his right and picked his way through the fading light of early evening.
The progress was perilous, journeying through muddy tracks and narrow lanes until eventually they came to the Rope Walk and a linkboy appeared, brandishing his torch of pitch and tow. Sir Gabriel promptly hired him and the rest of the journey was uneventful until they approached the theatre itself. Here was a scene which could have come from the jaws of hell. Drunken revellers stood outside The Malt Shovel, an ale house directly beside the Playhouse, exchanging banter with several actors, already costumed and made-up. Meanwhile, patrons were making their way inside, including several footmen who had come to reserve boxes for their masters. Ladies, raising their skirts a little to escape the mire of the street, were subjected to catcalls and whistles from the lowlife crowding outside the place.
When Sir Gabriel and John had parted company with Samuel Foote at the Pump House they had enquired as to the possibility of hiring a box and the jolly little man had told them with enthusiasm that he would see to it. So now as they made their way within, Sir Gabriel whispered to an attendant and they were shown into a reasonable box that could have housed four persons.
Looking around, John saw that the theatre had at some time been enlarged and now formed the shape of an amphitheatre, with boxes on the stage as well as in the circle. A hole had been knocked in the wall close to the seats in the pit through which a human arm holding a tray of drinks appeared at regular intervals, serving both the audience and the actors. John presumed that The Malt Shovel was doing a roaring trade. The stage itself was minute, and it now became obvious that actors exiting on prompt side would have to run round the back of the theatre to enter opposite prompt. The Apothecary was highly amused as he watched the audience take its seats.
A footman, who appeared to be sleeping in a lower stage box, suddenly shambled to his feet as the box’s occupant appeared. John gaped as a heap of human blubber wobbled into the space, knocking the footman out of the way with his walking cane as he did so. The creature lowered itself onto an agonised chair and allowed his stomach to fall forward as he did so, while the footman, bowing, made his way out. The colossus ignored him completely.
He was quite the fattest man that John had ever seen in his life – and in his profession he had seen a few. It was hideously terrifying and at the same time horribly fascinating. The man’s chins, of which there were several, protruded not only downwards but outwards, giving him the look of an abundant harvest moon. On his head he wore a small greyish wig curled up on either side, which only served to enhance his general enormity. He was clean shaven but his eyebrows were of a vivid saffron shade, thick and curling and doing little or nothing to enhance his looks. John gazed in total entrancement.
Feeling someone staring at hi
m, the man looked round and scowled, then stretched his arm over the front of the box and took a frothing tankard of two quarts of ale which he proceeded to drink with obvious satisfaction. Then he belched deep, the vapour rising from the depths of his gaseous stomach. After that he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then rose a little in his protesting chair before settling himself back on to it, stretching out his short, stocky legs. John guessed that the man had let loose a fart, for the woman in the box next to his raised her handkerchief to her nostrils with a little shrill of alarm.
Sir Gabriel said, amused, ‘I see someone has caught your eye, my dear.’
‘Yes, that gross creature sitting in the stage box left. Have you ever seen the like of it?’
His father raised his quizzer and peered, then said shortly, ‘No, never.’
‘I wonder who he can be?’
‘We must ask a discreet question at the hotel. There can surely be only one such answering his description.’
‘I agree.’
Now the footmen were leaving the other boxes as the last of the patrons arrived. The candles were snuffed in the auditorium and lit by the snuffers before the stage, the musicians entered and struck up a foot-tapping air. The performance had begun.
Four
The comedy was banal but hilarious and John, looking at his father, thought that he had never seen him laugh so heartily before. In fact Sir Gabriel’s cheeks were wet with tears and he applied his handkerchief several times. From the gallery above, the Apothecary could hear the sound of Irish Tom’s loud guffaws, while he himself added uncontrollable giggling to the general cacophony.
The story was simple. A pleasure-seeking young woman asks her husband for permission to visit the Hotwell and the theatre. She will be accompanied by her mother, played by Samuel Foote, complete with slyly false bosom, highly rouged cheeks and a great many lascivious glances at the audience. Her husband, played by the great Irish actor Spranger Barry, taking a rest from his usual Shakespearean roles but still enunciating the words as if he were speaking as Othello, exclaims, ‘Oh horrid! The Long Room is a school of Wickedness and the Playhouse a Nursery to the Devil!’ This brought the house to its feet and there was deafening cheering for a few minutes. John took the opportunity of looking at the mammoth in the stage box and saw that the creature was imbibing yet another quart of ale and growing very red in the face as a result.
The play continued with much joviality, Sam Foote even doing a parodied country dance with Mr Barry, which was made all the funnier by the fact that Foote had only one leg so that the violent dips and curtseys he made beneath the hooped skirts were amusingly accentuated. The evening ended with a pantomime in which the mother-in-law is pursued by the Devil himself, who finally vanishes beneath her voluminous petticoats. The spectators, who loved a bit of rudery, clapped and whooped noisily, and while Sir Gabriel gathered himself together, his son looked once more at the occupant of the stage box.
The man’s stick was handed to him by a kindly snuffer and then he drew his immense frame to a standing position and slowly waddled out. The Apothecary wondered where the man was staying and if he had possibly come to the Hotwell to try and cure his obesity. But there his curiosity had to end, for Irish Tom had sprinted down the stairs from the gallery and was bringing round the coach. Helping Sir Gabriel aboard, John thought that their first day at the Hotwell had been highly successful, but as the carriage turned back in the direction from which they had come, his eye was caught by the sight of the colossus being heaved into a coach by a team of three sweating footmen. He knew a moment of pure curiosity. Before he left he would make it his business to find out exactly who the fat fellow was.
At breakfast the next morning – which John ate like a trencherman and at which Sir Gabriel merely picked – he produced the letter from his dressing gown pocket.
‘What do you make of this, Papa?’
Sir Gabriel produced a pair of spectacles and put them on his powerful nose. Then he proceeded to read the paper twice before lowering it and asking John, ‘You have no knowledge of this person?’
‘You refer to the writer?’
‘Of course.’
‘No, I know nothing of him or his stepson.’
‘My instinct is that you should go and see the man as soon as possible. Find out all that you can. And as quickly as you can. If this stepson is an imposter then the poor fellow might be in danger.’
‘You think so?’
‘My dear John, it is not like you to miss a whiff of trouble. I should certainly make it my business to go if I were in your shoes.’
‘You have made up my mind for me. I will call on him this morning. If I can find the wretched place.’
It was even more difficult than the Apothecary had realised. Whereas Hotwell was a bustling and thriving community, Clifton was a small and remote village with only a church, a few farms and a scattering of thirty or so upper-class houses scattered between Clifton Hill and the Green. The reason for this was that it was almost impossible to get to. There were four possible routes: along the toll road which went over Clifton Downs, up a winding footpath which pre-dated the Roman invasion, by a flight of steps which led directly from the Colonnade and climbed steeply upwards, and up Granby Hill. John chose the last and had never been more terrified in his life.
His horses screamed in fear as they gallantly climbed, hooves slipping and eyes rolling – Irish Tom cursing the way robustly – up a steep and precipitous track hacked out of the rock itself. John closed his eyes and clung to the seat as he was forced into an upright position as they neared the top of the terrible ascent. Then they stopped, horses panting for breath, Irish Tom white in the face and John feeling slightly sick as they reached the end of that terrible road. Not far away lay an inn and they made for it rapidly to collect themselves before their next destination.
So it was with a whiff of brandy on his breath that John, peering out of the window, found his way to Sion Row, a small street of terraced houses built not far from the mighty Gorge itself. With some trepidation the Apothecary knocked on the front door, to be answered by a somewhat downcast footman who said in a depressed voice, ‘Yes, Sir?’
With a flourish John produced his card, which the man stared at as if he had never in his life seen the like of it before.
‘Do you want me to show this to the Master, Sir?’
John decided to be kind. ‘Yes, if you would be so good.’
‘If you will wait there, Sir, I’ll see if he is in.’
‘Just a moment before you do. Is his name Mr Huxtable?’
‘That’s the old master, Sir. The new master is Mr Bagot.’
‘Then I seek Mr Huxtable, if you please.’
‘Just a moment, Sir.’
Feeling somewhat isolated – Irish Tom having vanished with the coach to find a suitable place to water the horses – the Apothecary tried to imagine what Sir Gabriel would have made of the journey he had just undertaken. But his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a small, bustling man of some sixty years who bowed effusively and held out his hand.
‘Mr Rawlings. It is Mr Rawlings, isn’t it?’ John nodded. ‘I am so very grateful to you, Sir, for coming to see me. Yes indeed. And all the way from London, too. Thank you, Sir, sincerely. Please step inside. Can I get you some refreshment?’
The Apothecary smiled. ‘First of all, let me assure you that I am staying near the Hotwell and travelled down with my father, who is here to take the waters. So please do not concern yourself on that score. And secondly, I would like to have a cup of coffee, provided you join me.’
‘Oh yes, indeed I will. Gregory, fetch a tray please. Commodore is out running an errand.’
The miserable servant bowed and plodded out of the room.
Mr Huxtable sighed loudly. ‘You must forgive him, Mr Rawlings. He is a farmer’s son and not born to serve. Alas, this is a very small community and we must take what we can in the way of servants.’
The Apothecary no
dded sympathetically.
Mr Huxtable went on, ‘I feel certain that you remarked the poor quality of his livery but, alas, I am running desperately short of funds to renew it. My stepson – if so he be – spends money as if it were his birthright. And, oh Mr Rawlings, I am not so sure it is.’
The coffee came in at this juncture and there was silence while the poor servant, hands shaking violently with nervousness, poured it out, a great deal of the liquid ending up in the saucers. Mr Huxtable merely sighed again and looked at John covertly from beneath half-closed lids.
He was like a thrush, John decided, Short and slightly rotund with a waistcoat of some speckled material that generally added to the illusion. His eyes were as bright and as round as a bird’s and equally as brilliant. Furthermore he had rather a jerky way of moving, hopping about on skinny little legs, which he was now doing as he advanced towards the Apothecary, handing him a cup.
‘Why don’t you tell me the entire story,’ John said encouragingly, taking a sip of coffee and wishing that he hadn’t.
‘Where shall I start?’
‘How about from your marriage.’
‘Very well. I have been married twice, you know. My first wife was a pale little thing, a slip of womanhood, but one whom I loved tremendously. But she was too frail to live and she died in my arms when we had only been wed a twelve-month. After that I knew I could never really love again, but then about a year or so later I met a young widow, a Mrs Bagot, and we married a few months later. She had a young son – a nice little boy called Augustus – and he lived with us quite happily at home in Bristol. But at the age of fourteen he fell in with rough company and, to cut to the bone, left home and refused to return. My wife took it very hard, I can tell you.’
‘And this is the boy who has now come back and is squandering your money?’
Mr Huxtable put down his coffee cup and turned on John a face of pure wretchedness. He nodded silently.