Avon Street

by Paul Emanuelli

  When Belle arrived at the theatre, the first people she met were Cauldfield and Daisy, his ever constant companion. It was as though they had sensed her intention and were waiting for her to appear; two grinning hyenas mocking their prey.

  Cauldfield dipped in a mocking bow to Belle and said, ‘Oh, my dear, you look so poorly.’ Then he paused, smiling with satisfaction at Daisy. Belle said nothing, staring into Cauldfield’s eyes in a battle of wills. He turned away, looking to Daisy again. ‘I wonder if she’s been fighting for her honour with a gentleman friend.’ Then with every last sign of mock concern expunged from his face, he laughed.

  Daisy giggled in response. ‘I can’t see you going on stage like that, dear, unless you’re to play a prize-fighter.’

  Cauldfield took Daisy’s hand. ‘I almost forgot to tell you, Miss Bennett, that Mrs Macready gave strict instructions that you were to report to her office as soon as you returned to duties. I should go there directly my dear, Mrs Macready seemed very perturbed by your absence, when I last spoke to her.’

  Already worried, Belle now felt on the edge of panic. She fought not to show it, but her mind was racing. To lose her position in the middle of the season, with no savings to fall back on would be disastrous. She could find a company that would take her on. She knew enough people around the country to do that; but it would mean moving. Even then, to find a new position within a few days would be next to impossible.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  John Doyle’s punch caught James squarely in the space between the bottom of his rib cage and the top of his stomach. He gasped for air, fighting to stay upright and backing towards the corner of the room, but John came after him, his feet seeming to almost skate across the floor without leaving the ground. James braced himself for another punch, but instead John ducked down and kicked out, sweeping his legs from under him. As James collapsed breathless to the ground, John drew back his right leg and launched a kick, which stopped inches from James’ prone body.

  John laughed. ‘Get up then, you coward. Defend yourself.’

  James struggled to his feet and lashed out with his injured right arm. John ducked to the side and danced away from him, laughing again. ‘Use your anger.’

  James lashed out again, this time with his left fist. John sprang out of his reach, laughing again. ‘Use your anger, but be its master. Keep control.’

  James launched a kick and nearly caught him. ‘That’s better,’ John said, ‘but keep your balance when you kick. If I pushed you now you’d be over.’ He brought his arms down to his side. ‘Rest now for a while. Get your breath back.’

  James sat in the corner of the room, his back to the wall. ‘Do you think me a coward then?’ he asked.

  ‘Nah,’ John replied. ‘I just wanted you to get your dander up, to put a bit of a bite in your soul. I know you’re no coward, but I want you to learn, and quick. Goading is just part of the lesson … Is your arm playing up?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ James said, trying to ignore the pain.

  ‘If you can defend yourself with a bad arm, think how much stronger you will be when you’re better.’

  James smiled. ‘Give me a few minutes to catch my breath … Tell me a little about your life.’

  John laughed. ‘You mean how I learnt to fight?’

  ‘No,’ James said. ‘Tell me about your life. What made you go to sea?’ He expected him to evade as usual, but instead John smiled and began to speak as though it was the beginning of a story.

  ‘Ever since I was little kid, I’d go down to the harbour in Boston, every chance I got. In the packet season you’d see over a hundred ships down there, sloops and barques, and brigs and schooners, bound for Baltimore and Washington, New York and Philadelphia. Sometimes you could barely get down Commercial Street for all the carts and barrows and wagons loaded with grain.’ He paused for a moment and James could see the young boy that he once had been, alive again in his smile. ‘They say Venice is beautiful, and I can vouch that it is, but those canals are no more beautiful than the channels that run betwixt the wharves in Boston, with all the piers of Long Wharf, and City, and Mercantile. And there’s no finer site than a whole fleet of ships beating it into the harbour under full sail, between T Wharf and Commercial, and not letting go a halyard until they’re berthed and ready to tie up.’

  John paused and smiled again, almost as though he was alone in the room, talking to himself. ‘It’s strange though, when I left home, I didn’t make for the harbour. I just kept walkin’ like I had no idea where I was heading, like I wasn’t ready, as though I still had thinking to do. I walked about forty miles till I found myself in Gloucester. Got work on the fishing boats. It was only when I’d been there a while that I got the notion to travel further. So I found a merchantman, and then another and just kept travellin’, sometimes on American ships, sometimes British, but I’ve told you that. You know I’ve seen a fair bit of the world, and had my ups and downs.’

  ‘Why did you leave Boston?’ James asked.

  John hesitated, his face more serious. ‘My parents had planned a life for me that they didn’t see fit to consult me on. Their plans didn’t agree with mine, so I left when I was sixteen.’

  ‘You were brave to leave when you were so young,’ James said.

  ‘Not so brave,’ John replied. ‘It would have been brave to stay and persuade them to let me lead my own life. Instead, I’ve hurt my parents and left my younger brother and sisters to fend for themselves. For years I never even wrote to them and I carry the guilt of that now. For the last couple of years I’ve written from time to time, but I’ve never been back and it’s been too long now.’

  ‘You should go back whilst you still can,’ James said, ‘I wish I could see my parents again, but now it’s too late.’

  John smiled. ‘Maybe you’re right. Rest now, James, you’re all tuckered out. You’ve done enough for today. Tomorrow afternoon we’ll practise again.’

  James held out his good arm and John helped him to his feet. It was true. James was exhausted; glad that his physical exertions were over for the day; pleased that he felt he knew John at least a little better. ‘I’ll go back to my locks then,’ he said.

  So it had been for the last few days. James’ life had been subject to a rigorous routine of training, either under John or Charlie. Each evening Charlie showed him some new technique for picking locks, teaching him how to recognise the appropriate pick or skeleton key for each particular lock. He taught him how to take locks apart and put them back together, until he understood their various strengths and weaknesses. James learnt how to pull bars out of a window frame, or how to jack them apart if they were too firmly fixed. He grew accustomed to the feel of the tools and learnt how to use them with precision and speed and, though still in awe of Charlie’s expertise and frustrated at his own lack of progress, with each achievement and skill mastered, James felt his confidence grow.

  What Charlie was up to still remained a mystery. Every other morning over the course of the last five days he had put on his best trousers and frock coat and gone out, saying he was off to Bristol. Each evening he had returned to inspect the tasks that he had set for James and to give him further instruction. Whilst James worked under his supervision, Charlie wrote in his notebook and would not be drawn on what he was planning.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  The door of Mrs Macready’s office was already ajar and swung open as Belle knocked. Sarah Macready was a woman whom Belle respected a great deal, though they had rarely spoken since her appointment, and then only polite small talk and passing greetings. She did not concern herself, day by day, with individual actors. Instead she communicated with the company, as was customary, through the leading man, Cauldfield. Yet it was obvious that she cared deeply about her theatre, and not only as a business. Belle had often seen her sitting in a vacant box, or standing in the wings, seeming to will the best from her actors and actresses and drinking in the reactions of the audience.

  ‘Come in,’ Mrs Macready
said. She was intent on the papers laid out before her as Belle entered and stood in front of the desk. Mrs Macready seemed almost oblivious to her presence and Belle felt like a child again, waiting to be scolded, dreading the punishment. Her mother’s punishments had never involved more than a few harsh words and were always followed by a hug. She could not imagine Mrs Macready hugging her.

  ‘Sit, my dear,’ Mrs Macready said, her eyes still locked on the work in front of her. As Belle sat, Mrs Macready returned the pen to its holder and looked up. Belle felt her eyes surveying the various cuts and scrapes on her face. The woman’s stare, like a hawk’s, was unblinking. ‘Please tell me that the injuries apparent on your face are not due to some drunken escapade.’

  ‘They are not, ma’am,’ Belle replied. ‘They are not due to anything I did wrong.’

  ‘Do you wish to tell me about it?’ she asked.

  ‘I will if necessary,’ Belle said. ‘I do not wish to lose my employment. But I would prefer not to.’

  The woman’s eyes seemed to soften a little. ‘A Dr Wetherby called on me and explained that you were unwell. He spoke very highly of you and begged me not to press you on the events that led to this. I will, therefore, respect his and your requests.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Belle replied. ‘He is a very honourable man.’ She wondered if Mrs Macready suspected there was something between them.

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ Mrs Macready said. ‘And you, my dear, are very talented, but I suppose you already know as much.’ Belle blushed. She could usually accept compliments with grace, sometimes believing, sometimes not, but Mrs Macready was different. This was a woman who had been in the theatre all of her life and was so widely respected. She had come from the successful theatre in Bristol and single-handedly saved the Theatre Royal in Bath after years of falling audiences and loss-making productions. ‘You don’t remember me do you?’ Mrs Macready asked, smiling.

  Belle was confused by the question. ‘You saw me at my appointment.’

  ‘Of course, my dear, but you don’t remember me from before.’ She looked Belle full in the face and smiled again, raising one quizzical eyebrow. ‘Your features are still the same, though you are a little older of course,’ she went on. ‘You see, I knew you when you were a little girl. Your parents were in my company in Bristol for a season, before they moved to Bath and then to York.’

  ‘You knew my parents?’ Belle asked.

  ‘Knew them and respected them, as hard working actors,’ Mrs Macready said. ‘They would have been proud of you, my dear.’

  ‘Then you are not going to dismiss me?’ Belle asked.

  ‘No; I am well aware of how you might have earned Mr Cauldfield’s spite. The man is an arrogant bully who has squandered the undoubted talent he once had. His name has carried him for years. Your place is safe and you may leave Mr Cauldfield to me.’

  ‘Thank you, Ma’am,’ Belle said.

  ‘You may call me Sarah – when we are alone. Now get off with you, Belle, and if you truly are well enough, make sure your face powder covers those bruises. We have audiences to please.’

  Chapter 23

  When Belle opened the door to Charlie she felt as though she was greeting an old friend, though she had met him for the first time only a couple of days ago. She would, she thought, probably have been reluctant even to let him in that first time, if Dr Wetherby had not warned her of his intended visit.

  Charlie’s first visit had been to ask a favour and by the time he asked it, there had of course been no denying him. His smile spoke volumes. He was a rogue without doubt, but he was a charming rogue, and someone who would probably be a good friend if given half a chance, she thought.

  ‘Come in, Charlie,’ Belle said. ‘You must meet Jenny and Molly for they missed your last visit.’ She turned just in time to see Molly disappear behind Jenny’s skirt.

  ‘Hello, Jenny,’ he said, then he hesitated, looking around the room. ‘And Molly, wherever you are hiding.’ He paused again, waiting for Molly’s answer, but she remained in hiding. He edged forward, speaking softly. ‘I’m Charlie, a friend of Belle’s, and I have gifts for you.’ He walked over to Jenny and got down on the floor beside her with a noisy cracking of knee joints. Then he produced a parcel from under his coat. As Molly peered out from behind Jenny’s skirt, Charlie began opening the parcel. ‘I’ve heard you’ve been poorly, young Molly,’ he said, a smile in every crease of his lined face. ‘So here’s a friend to help you get better.’ With an exaggerated flourish he produced from the wrappings a doll in a brightly coloured dress, its wooden face painted with bright red cupid lips and brilliant blue eyes. Molly took the doll, hugging it to her, and then leant forward and kissed Charlie on the nose.

  It took him a while to get to his feet again. When he did, Charlie reached into his pocket and presented Jenny with a silver thimble and Belle with a length of scarlet silk ribbon. ‘Small tokens,’ he said.

  ‘You are too generous,’ Jenny said.

  Charlie grinned. ‘Don’t be worried at taking gifts from an old man. They really didn’t cost me much, I ‘as a few friends who can lay their hands on things quite reasonable.’ He played with Molly for a while, as though she were a grandchild he had met for the first time. Only gradually did he bring the conversation around to the reason for his visit, though Belle knew it could never have been far from his mind.

  ‘Did you manage to get them items what we talked about?’ he asked.

  Belle nodded, ‘Yes, I have them.’

  ‘Then we’d better be off, if you’ll excuse us, ladies,’ he said, bowing in turn to Jenny and Molly.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Belle saw James walking down the staircase towards them, as Charlie ushered her into his house in The Paragon. Instead of his normal gentleman’s apparel he was dressed in a workingman’s calico trousers and a loose-fitting shirt. The transformation in his appearance was striking and she must have shown her surprise. James seemed embarrassed, quickly trying to tuck his shirt into the belt of his trousers. ‘You look much better than I expected … I mean to say, you look very pretty, as though you are fully recovered, Miss Bennett.’ He blushed. ‘I’m sorry I’m blathering like an eejit.’

  Belle smiled, enjoying his confusion as he stumbled to find his words, and to find some right order to place them in. ‘I am much better, thank you, Mr Daunton, and you also seem well. Though I see you have altered your taste in clothing or has the fashion for gentleman’s apparel changed without my noticing it?’

  ‘I have been working,’ he said, as though this was sufficient explanation. His face was still flushed. ‘I’ll go and change. I really wasn’t expecting visitors. It’s been some time … ’

  ‘You will indeed,’ Charlie interrupted. ‘Miss Bennett has brought you some new clothes in this parcel and you will need to wear them when we depart for Bristol.’ Charlie handed the parcel to James. ‘Go and put them on. We’ll wait for you in the drawing room.’

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  When James returned to the drawing room he was wearing the full army officer’s dress uniform that Belle had borrowed from the costume store. It suited him she thought.

  ‘Excellent,’ Charlie said. ‘You’m every inch an officer.’

  ‘The trousers are a little loose around the waist,’ James said, appearing lost in his embarrassment and confusion.

  ‘Don’t be impolite,’ Charlie said, ‘Miss Bennett has gone to some trouble and not a little risk to get these things for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Bennett,’ James said, holding the waist of the trousers in both hands. ‘The whole thing’s a little confusing. I did not mean to be ungracious, but I feel I’m the only one who doesn’t know what’s happening.’

  ‘That’s easily remedied,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ll fetch you some braces while Miss Bennett completes your disguise. Mrs Hawker can put in a couple of stitches at the back.’

  Belle resisted the urge to laugh and instead smiled, as demurely as she could manage. ‘Sit in the ch
air by the occasional table, Mr Daunton, and close your eyes. Even the redoubtable Mrs Hawker will not recognise you when I’ve finished my work.’ She set to work with tweezers on James’ eyebrows. ‘This may hurt a little. You have very distinctive eyebrows, Mr Daunton, but perhaps a little too distinctive.’

  ‘This is not an experience I am accustomed to. Are you sure it’s necessary?’

  Belle could feel his breath at times on her cheek. She half expected him to resist her, but instead he moved his head in compliance with the slightest touch of her fingers and maintained a lazy smile on his face throughout. When she had finished her work on his face she said, ‘Now let us see what we can do with this hair.’ She ran her fingers through his hair and his smile seemed to deepen. When she had finished cutting, she stroked the sides of his head to ensure that the hair fell right and was even on both sides. He opened his eyes, staring into hers, and she felt drawn for a moment into the exchange.

  Then she smiled and put a hand over his eyes. ‘Now close your eyes. I don’t want to get this powder in them.’ She felt herself smiling, wanting to giggle. He closed his eyes and sat still while she finished the work of greying his temples. ‘You can open them now, but close your mouth tight.’ Belle applied some resin to James’ upper lip and, unfolding a piece of tissue paper, took out a false moustache and applied it to his face.

  Charlie had come back into the room with the braces. ‘What about a scar?’ he said. ‘Such as he might have got from a sabre.’

  ‘Patience, Mr Maggs,’ Belle said. She took out a small pencil and drew a thin line on James’ left cheek and then worked at its edges with rouge and other cosmetics before blending in the clear resin she had used to apply the moustache. ‘That should hold well’, she said, stepping back to admire her work. ‘Just pray that it doesn’t rain.’

  She watched, admiring her work as James got up and looked in the mirror above the mantelpiece. His long black hair was now shorter and greying. His thick black eyebrows were thinner and no longer met at the bridge of his nose. The scar on his cheek looked as though it had been there for years and he had a fine thick moustache. The disguise was complete.