“But where will I go?” Tom cried. “I haven’t got anywhere.”
“I’m told Bristol’s nice. You could join the navy.”
“I’d get sea-sick,” Tom said.
“How about the army?”
“That’s worse. I’d get shot.”
Moll slammed down her tankard. “I knew it was a mistake coming after you,” she muttered. “Now I’m stuck with you. A boy! The last thing I need!”
“Maybe I could learn how to be a thief … like you?” Tom suggested. But even as he spoke the words, he knew it wouldn’t work. Tom lived in a world where there were as many thieves as honest men. He had spent his entire life surrounded by them. He knew that many people had a simple choice. Steal or starve. But even so, there was something inside him that told him that stealing was wrong and that it wouldn’t work for him. His heart would never be in it.
Moll must have sensed this because she shook her head. “No.”
“Then what?”
“Listen to me.” Moll leaned forward. “If you are going to stay in London, you’ve got to go somewhere where Ratsey won’t find you. And that means you can’t stay with me, even if I wanted you to. Everyone knows everyone down here. Paul’s Walk isn’t just a meeting place. It’s where everyone finds out about everyone else. That’s why he was there yesterday and that’s why he’ll be there today.” Moll looked nervously over her shoulder. “We’ve been in here half an hour,” she went on, “and who knows who’s seen us together? Someone could be on their way to Ratsey even now. You stay with me, he’ll find you soon enough. Believe me. You won’t be safe with me.”
Tom nodded, feeling gloomier by the minute.
“We have to find you work. You need money in your pocket and a roof over your head.”
“But what sort of work can I do?”
“That’s a good question.” Moll thought for a minute. “I could get you into a tavern. You say you’ve handled horses and there are people I know. No…” She shook her head. “Forget it. Ratsey knows your past and that’s the first place he’ll look. He’s probably checking out every tavern in town even as we sit.”
Tom said nothing.
“All right.” Moll pointed with her pipe. “We need to get you a job so let’s consider your qualifications. Can you cook?”
“No.”
“Can you read?”
“No.”
“Can you sew?”
“No.”
“Can you sing?”
“I’ve never tried.”
Moll sighed. “A typical boy. Completely useless. All right. There’s nothing you can do. But is there anything you want to do? At least that might be worth a try.”
Tom thought hard. What did he want to do? Here he was in London, the greatest city in the world. He could be anything he wanted to be. But what did he want to be? Not a thief. Not a beggar. Could he work in the market? No. He would never make himself heard in all that din. How about a shop assistant? No. That would mean handling money and he couldn’t count.
And then he remembered. He had only ever been completely happy once in his entire life. For just a few brief hours all his problems had been forgotten and it was as if he had been transported to another world. At that moment, Tom knew that there was only one thing he wanted to be. He wanted to join the people he had seen two nights before, at the Red Lion of Enfield.
“I know what I want to do, Moll,” he said. “I want to join the theatre. I want to act.”
auditions
“I still think it’s a stupid idea,” Moll said.
“But you don’t like the theatre,” Tom replied.
“I love the theatre! I go there all the time.”
“Yes. But only to rob the audiences.”
It was six o’clock in the morning, two days after their unsuccessful visit to Moorfield. Tom was still lying on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, but Moll was already up and fully dressed – which was hardly surprising as she slept in her clothes.
The day before, she had visited Paul’s Walk and come back with exciting news. An advertisement had been posted on the Si Quis door (this was the name of the door that Tom had himself noticed). Actors were wanted for a new play that was about to be performed at the Rose Theatre, not far from where Moll lived. Those interested were to present themselves at the theatre where auditions would be taking place.
And now it was the day of the auditions. Tom had barely slept a wink the night before. It was a strange thing. He had never once in his entire life thought about becoming an actor. But now he had made the decision, there was nothing he wanted more. It was as if it had been in his blood all along but had only now bubbled to the surface.
Moll was holding a package, wrapped in paper. “This is for you.”
Tom threw the blanket off and sat up. “What is it?” he asked.
Moll was suddenly uncomfortable. “Don’t you even know what it is in four days’ time?” she snapped. “It’s Christmas Day. So this is your present.”
“You went and bought me a present?” Tom was amazed. Nobody had ever bought him anything. Then a nasty thought crossed his mind. “Did you really buy it?” he asked.
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean. I used my own money.”
“But you stole the money…”
“Well … yes.”
Tom unwrapped the package. Inside was a white shirt, a pair of woollen trousers, a waistcoat and, most wonderful of all, a pair of leather boots. Tom held them, marvelling. He had been barefoot for as long as he could remember. This leather, soft and warm in his hands, was something he had only ever dreamed about. He gazed at her, unbelieving.
“It’s probably a complete waste of money,” Moll said, “but you can’t turn up at the audition looking like a vagabond. Get dressed. We ought to be on our way.”
They left a few minutes later, Tom wearing his new clothes. Taking off his old clothes had been like shedding his own skin. He had worn the same shirt and trousers for about three years, and they had stayed on him day and night. To walk without feeling the mud or being cut by jagged stones was a completely new experience for him, and he had tripped three times before he had even left the house. As he walked down the street, he wondered how he must look to other people. The clothes Moll had bought weren’t new, but they were clean. He felt almost like a genteleman.
The Rose Theatre was a large, round building, part wood, part plaster and part brick. It stood in what had once been a garden – that was how it got its name. It was still early in the morning, but already a lot of actors had come to audition: men in feathered caps and flowing cloaks, preening themselves like pigeons.
Moll stopped opposite the main door. “Well. Good luck,” she said.
“Aren’t you coming in?” Tom asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “There’s always a chance I might get recognized. I did this place last month.” She took Tom’s hand. “You know where to find me if you need me. But I’m sure you’ll get a job. You look like an actor. You’ve got an actor’s eyes.”
“Thanks, Moll.”
“If they do hire you, come back and see me on Christmas Day. I’m going out to dinner. A bit of a reunion. You might enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I’ll be back tonight,” Tom said.
“I hope not,” Moll retorted. “My room’s only big enough for one. And your feet smell.”
Moll turned and walked away. Tom watched her until she’d gone. Then, taking a deep breath, he crossed the road and went into the Rose.
Tom found himself in a circular space with seats rising in three tiers and surrounding him on all sides. In front of him was a raised stage with two pillars holding up a slanting, tiled roof. There were two doors at the back, presumably where the actors made their entrances. The theatre had no roof. If it rained (or snowed – the weather was getting colder and colder) the actors and the audience in front of the stage would get soaked. Only the people in the seats would have any chance of staying dry.
&nbs
p; There was a man standing in the middle of the stage, reciting what sounded like a poem in a whiny and monotonous voice. Two other men were watching him, sitting on stools to one side. One of these was tall, with dark, curling hair, a beard and tired eyes. The other was shorter and plumper, more expensively dressed with a silk handkerchief draped over his hand. Both of them looked bored.
The actor had only recited about three lines when the bearded man stood up. “That’s enough, thank you,” he called out. “Next!”
“But I’ve only just begun!” the actor whined.
“Don’t send a messenger to us. We’ll send a messenger to you,” the man replied.
The actor left the stage. There was a long line of men snaking round the edge of the theatre. As soon as he had gone, one of them took his place and the line moved forward. Tom walked towards the stage, thrilled and terrified by it at the same time. Could he stand here and perform – perhaps to a hundred or two hundred people?
“Look out!”
With his eyes fixed on the stage, Tom had collided with a young man who had been carrying a sheaf of papers. Now the papers fell out of his hands and cascaded to the floor, some of them carried by the breeze into the very muddiest of puddles. Every page was covered with writing and Tom was horrified to see the words blur and then disappear in a black haze as they came into contact with the water.
“I’m sorry! I’m really sorry…”
Tom did his best to scoop the pages out of the puddle and hand them back to the man.
“Why couldn’t you look where you were going?”
“I was looking at the stage. I’m sorry.” Tom straightened up, feeling wretched. Here he was in his brand new clothes and already he had made a complete idiot of himself.
The man glanced at him and softened. “It’s all right,” he said. “I wasn’t looking either. I was thinking about my new play.”
Tom looked at the man more carefully. He was in his late twenties, dressed in a black velvet tunic with a high white collar. The man had an unusually intelligent face. His deep brown eyes seemed to look right into you; through you and at you at the same time. His hair, also brown, hung almost down to his neck at the back and sides, but he was already going bald on top.
“A new play?” Tom realized what the man had just said. “Are you a writer?”
“Yes. I suppose I am. As a matter of fact, it’s my play they’re about to perform here.” Tom had picked up the last of the pages and the man wiped it clean using his sleeve and added it to the pile. “My name is Shakespeare,” he said. “Bill Shakespeare. Or Will Shakespeare if you like. Or Bill…”
Tom was confused. “Is that with a B or not a B?” he asked.
“B or not a B. B or not a B!” Shakespeare’s eyes brightened and he suddenly produced a quill and scribbled something down on one of the pages. “That’s rather good,” he said. “I might use that.”
“What’s your play about?” Tom asked, changing the subject. Behind them, the second actor had just been dismissed as brutally as the first. A third actor was taking his place.
“Oh. It’s about a Roman general called Titus Andronicus,” Shakespeare said. “Actually, it’s rather violent. But that’s what they want…” He pointed at the two men on the stage. “That’s Philip Henslowe. He owns the theatre. The other man is Lord Strange … and what’s really strange is that we work for him at all because between you and me he’s a complete idiot. All he ever wants is clowns and acrobats.” He sighed, then glanced at Tom. “Are you here to audition?” he asked, suddenly.
“Yes.”
“Oh, I see.” Shakespeare grimaced. “Actually, I’m awfully sorry, but I don’t think they’re looking for girls.”
“I’m not a girl!” Tom said indignantly.
“No, no, no!” Shakespeare laughed.“That’s not what I meant. Didn’t you know? We don’t have girls in the theatre. All the girls’ parts are played by boys.”
This was something Tom had never known. “Why?” he asked.
“They just are.” Shakespeare searched through the pages. “But like I say, there are only two girls in the play and they’ve both been cast.”
“Oh.” Tom was disappointed.
“Why do you want to be an actor anyway?” Shakespeare asked. “Have you acted before?”
“No.”
“But you’ve been to a play.”
“Only once.” Suddenly Tom found himself telling Shakespeare about the play he had seen at the Red Lion. As he started to describe the plot, he saw Shakespeare smile and a moment later the playwright laughed and slapped him on the back. “There’s no need to tell me about the play,” he said. “It was The Comedy of Errors. I wrote it.”
Tom gaped. “You’re a great writer,” he said.
“No, no, no!” Shakespeare blushed. “I’m only just starting out really. But one day … who knows?”
Despite his meeting with Shakespeare, Tom was feeling lost and dejected as he left the theatre. The visit had been a complete failure. There were no parts for him in the play. He had nowhere to go, no money and no possessions except the clothes he was wearing.
He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice someone slipping out of the theatre behind him. But as he walked down the road the man hurried after him and caught up.
“Excuse me, young sir.” The speaker was short and very dark, with narrow, glinting eyes. He was quite bald, apart from two patches of black hair, one above each ear. He also had a moustache, the hairs curling round on each side of his nose. He was dressed exotically in a rich, multi-coloured tunic with a bright red sash across his chest and a matching red plume in his hat. His trousers were mauve, ballooning out above the knee where they were tied tightly with two black ribbons. His stockings were also red. His feet, which were extremely small, were encased in brightly polished black shoes. “I noticed you in the theatre just now,” the man went on. There was something foreign about him. Although his English was perfect, there was the trace of an accent, distant and unrecognizable. “You were hoping to perform in a play?”
“Yes.” Tom kept on walking.
The man hurried to keep up, almost dancing on his tiny feet. “Then permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “My name is Dr Mobius. You’ve heard of me? No? No matter…” He coughed delicately. “The truth is that I myself have a theatrical company.”
That stopped Tom in his tracks. The man smiled at him. He was wearing some sort of perfume and smelled of flowers and musk. “We call ourselves the Garden Players.” He waved a set of fingers heavy with rings. “We have a play we wish to perform and I came to the Rose because I’m looking for a boy.”
“What sort of play is it?” Tom’s mind was reeling and it was the first thing he could think to ask.
Dr Mobius tweaked his moustache. “It’s a comedy,” he explained. “A very comical comedy in my opinion. But then, I wrote it. It’s called The Devil and his Boy. You see? I play the devil. But, due to an unfortunate accident, I find myself in need of a boy.”
“And you think…?” Tom tried to make sense of his thoughts. “What makes you think I’d be right for the part?” he asked.
Dr Mobius simpered. “I am intuitive,” he said. “That is, I am a very sensitive person. I can sense talent in a young man like yourself. The way you carry yourself. The way you speak. Of course…” He whipped out a handkerchief and brushed an imaginary tear from his eye, “…if you are not interested…”
“I’m interested!” Tom exclaimed.
“How interesting! Good!” Suddenly he was businesslike. “It will be three weeks’ work. We will pay you six shillings when the job is done. You will live with us, with the Garden Players, and you will receive all food and board.” He paused for breath. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Tom. Tom Falconer.”
“You are alone in London?”
Tom was about to mention Moll, then thought better of it. She wasn’t part of this life. “Yes,” he said.
“Then do we have a de
al?”
Tom hesitated for a moment. Somewhere, deep inside him, Tom knew something was wrong, that this was simply too good to be true. After all, the last time he had been offered work, it had nearly cost him both his legs. But at the same time, it was a job. A roof over his head. Food. And he would be acting in a play!
“It’s a deal,” he said.
Dr Mobius stretched out his arm to shake hands and it was then that it happened. He must have lost a button because, for a moment, his sleeve fell away from his arm. Looking down, Tom saw the man’s dark skin and there, just above the wrist, a strange mark. It was an eye with a cross in it. And it hadn’t been drawn there. It had been burned into his flesh.
The man glanced at Tom, then down to his exposed arm. For a moment his eyes flared and he opened his mouth in what was almost a snarl. But then, he forced the smile back on to his face and pulled the sleeve back down. “My sleeve,” he said. “These London tailors don’t know what they’re doing!” He brought his hand back up in front of Tom. “So, Tom Falconer. I am the devil. Are you going to be my boy? If so, let’s shake.”
Tom reached out.
They shook.
the garden players
There were eight men in the company known as the Garden Players, but with Tom that figure was brought up to nine.
Tom had followed Dr Mobius back up the south bank of the river. The sun was still shining brightly but Tom couldn’t help but notice something rather strange. Mobius preferred the shadows. Whenever the street widened out – when they crossed Long Southwark, for example – his beady eyes searched for darkened alleyways and hidden entrances. If he saw people coming towards him, he chose another way. And so they barely saw anyone as they followed the Thames, heading east, past London Bridge and on to Bermondsey.
They finally arrived at the river itself and Dr Mobius stopped, blinking in the light. It was snowing now and Tom could see the surface of the Thames beginning to ice over. He wondered how long it would be before he was able to cross it on foot.
“Here we are,” Mobius panted, speaking for the first time since they had set off. He waved a hand. “We are here.”
The Devil and His Boy Page 6