If the quantity of wood and paint, the healthy dollop of paper and paste, and the shortness of Mr Lombard's temper were anything to judge by, it will be a marvel to behold. There will be sails and rigging too, said the Boss, beaming like a Chinaman, and all in working order so that 'a talented chorus' (Mr Carrier does not name names) might shin up the ropes and ladders and perform an 'aerial ballet' at least ten feet above the stage.
Mr Lombard, the Pavilion's stage artist, was as busy as a hen with one chick, and worried not only about the construction of the ship-in-full-sail, and the desert island with waving palm trees, but also the more pressing business of scenery for the new drama on the stage next week - The Path of Pride; or the Housebreakers of London - in which he was required to suggest, with terrific realism, a prison cell, London streets east and west, and the rooftop of an aristocratic residence in Larkhill-square.
'All of this to be built and painted. When? I am asking of you.'
He shot this in my direction and I, like a fool, looked around me, expecting to see Mr Carrier or Mr Pocock ready with a sharp answer, but there was no one except the shadow of Mr Mint, the doorkeeper, and a collection of Mr Lombard's assistants, bustling here and there.
'"There are set scenes which might be dragged out from the store and refreshed," says the Boss. When? I am asking of you. "There are only two which must be got up from scratch," says he. When? I am asking, a third time.'
This was a new experience for me. At the Aquarium, we are often as solitary and quiet as a nun's parlour for hours, but in the theatre, it seems, everyone talks. Constantly. Mr Lombard, who looked more like a grocer in his long apron and with his pipe clamped between his teeth, interrogated everyone and the thin air beside, and now and again fired off an angry enquiry at me and my boys, who were sitting ducks at the side of the stage. I do not think he expected a reply. Mr Lombard had been early upon the Pavilion stage, with gas lit and curtains drawn, for he wanted two drop-scenes painted, and another underway, before the daily irritation and interruption of performers commences.
Thorns in my side,' he grumbled.
But today, even those precious hours of industry were denied him, for noises off signal the arrival of, not only the regular company, but a small and growing battalion of girls and their mamas, eager to try for the children's ballet. They were not due until after twelve and had a good two hours or so to wait, but eager mothers and weary-eyed children were already in the queue at the theatre door. Through them, like a trail of conscripts, trooped the company, rubbing sleep from their eyes and complaining about the inconvenience of such an early hour to professionals who have not long been in their beds. One of these stragglers, remarkably bright-eyed and cheery, was Lovegrove who, though we talked - and Will drank - in the Cheshire Cheese until very late, looked for all the world as if he had had a full eight hours in a feather bed. Tall and elegant, with that easy, shambling walk, as though his boots were half a size too large, he passed the time of day with Mr Mint, tipped his hat and murmured something inaudible to a gaggle of ballet girls who gasped and giggled behind their hands, and, grinning at me, drew up alongside Brutus and Nero, who vigorously wagged their affection for him. Even Mr Lombard, whose opinion of 'professionals' is as low as a Methody's, nodded his head and muttered, 'Mornin', Mr Lovegrove,' as though he meant it.
'Bob,' said Will, still scratching Brutus's ear, 'I'd be obliged if you could spare a moment to come with me and take a breath of briny air. Just a step or so out of the theatre door onto the fo'csle, don't you know?'
We ambled back there, and he stood at my shoulder on the step, but held me back from going outside.
'No, wait a moment, my old shipmate,' said he, 'and before you dirty your shoe leather, just cast your peepers across to starboard, there, and see what you can see in the shadow of Cheeseman's noble establishment. See if you can espy a boy, hunkered against the wall.'
I did as I was told, and peered through the buzzing crowd of mothers and children, where I did indeed descry a small figure, hunched upon the ground. There was only one, and he looked to me like any other street boy - thin and dirty, with his boot-toes out, and wearing such a ragged collection of clothes that it was impossible to see where his shirt began and his jacket finished.
'Now,' he said, 'another test for you. Look across the road. There, standing at Strang's table.'
I strained my eyes, for although it was mid-morning, the light was grey with fog and the sun would not break through the gloom today. Yet I could see a man at the table outside Mr Strang's bookshop. Given his immense size and remarkable costume - a Benjamin made of some light-coloured cloth, with tall hat to match - he was hardly flying low! Apparently deep in contemplation of a volume, he would turn into the light now and again, the better to read it. And the better to look around and about him also, I thought, for I noticed his head was constantly bobbing up and down.
'I wonder,' Will was saying in a low voice, 'if this unlikely pair might be the two who tripped our friend Trimmer and stole his penny novel? The boy and the grampus he described to us. At the very least, it's an extraordinary coincidence to have two specimens who so very nearly fit the bill here in the street together, don't you think?' He scratched his head. 'I wonder if they were intending to rob Trim of something particular, and failed, and so they've come back to try him again ... I don't know though. It's rather out of the way. Perhaps we should just call the constable and have him put it right.'
But Mr Lombard's bell sounded and saved us the bother, and we were summoned to the stage.
(I wonder if that was our first mistake, and whether, had we simply sent around the corner for a bluebottle, everything that followed would - well, perhaps might - have taken a different course. But hindsight is a wonderful invention, as someone wisely said.)
On the gloomy stage, the Pavilion company was assembled, and by the time Pilcher, the gasman, had turned up the light just enough to make reading possible, Trim was the only interested party notable by his absence. After ten minutes, even Mr Carrier was glancing at the theatre door and his pocket-watch, and finally he signalled to Mr Pocock to hand out the pieces. At first, everyone bent their head silently over their pages, and then were heard a few grumbles, mainly concerning 'business removed', for actors are uncommonly precious about their 'lines' (as they call them), and count them up religiously, regarding themselves hard done by if they lose, rather than gain, even a handful.
To commence,' said Mr Carrier, in his business-like manner. 'In brief. Act one, scene one, no alterations. Scene two, strike Mr Wherewithal's speech. Scene three . . .'
And so it continued, with Mr Pocock furiously scribbling at his little table a summary of what Mr Carrier had added and cut from Trim's original.
'Act two, scene thirteen—'
'Very brief,' chipped in Tom Daley, the clown, 'nothing to it!' and everyone laughed, for he was correct. When it was held up, act two, scene thirteen was a blank page!
'Quite right. This is where we require the services of our dramatic author,' said Mr Carrier, drily, looking towards the theatre door again. 'Given that our closest rival, Mr Hennessey at the Oriental—' - here the company cried 'Boo!' and 'Yah!' and noisily made fun, but Mr Carrier held up his hand - 'I beg your serious attention, ladies and gentlemen. This is no matter for jest. I learned only this morning that, in addition to his act two finale, Mr Hennessey's pantomime will also present a stud of trained zebras, racing dogs and monkeys in a mock Derby.' He looked around the circle. 'This is a tight business. We cannot afford to be upped by our nearest competitor. Which is why I have asked Mr Chapman to attend upon us today.'
He took me by surprise! But I jumped to my feet and brought Brutus and Nero to heel and we stood to attention, while Mr Carrier waved us onto the stage. If there were some sniggers and remarks made behind hands, there were also ripples of clapping and a 'Well done, Bob!’, which came from Lovegrove's direction.
'Mr Chapman and his Sagacious Canines are well known to visitors at the East L
ondon Aquarium,' said Mr Carrier, 'and I have no doubt that those same visitors will be eager to see him and his clever dogs on the Pavilion stage. I sent round to Mr Trimmer last night and asked him to work up two or three scenes in which these excellent dogs might be seen to good advantage.' He looked again at the theatre door and then at his watch. 'I can only suppose that their devising took rather longer than I, a mere theatrical manager, could have anticipated.'
As dry a man as ever I've met, Mr Carrier. And if further proof were needed that he knew his business, he had two theatres to wrinkle his brow: the great Pavilion and also the smaller Royal Clarence on the other side of the river. He could often be seen dashing between the two in his little dog cart, holding onto his hat and talking nineteen to the dozen to the driver, who was, of course, his secretary, Mr Pocock.
'I hain't workin' wiv no dawgs, sir,' piped up Phil Connelly, the low comedian of the company. 'I 'ave been nipped more times than I 'ave 'ad 'ot dinners. Dawgs don't favour me.'
'These dogs don't nip or do anything detrimental, Phil,' said Will Lovegrove lazily. He was rocking on the back legs of his chair and winding his scarf about his neck. 'They are thoroughly reliable.'
'All dogs nip,' returned Phil morosely. 'You can 'ave my part for a green'orn, Gov, but I ain't workin' wiv no dawgs.'
This brought me up, and Brutus and Nero also, and for a moment I thought our little number might be reduced to nought, all on account of Phil Connelly and his prejudices. But Mr Carrier was having none of it.
'The dogs are well-trained, Phil, and well-behaved. I have seen them myself, performing at the Aquarium.' (I had no idea the Gov had seen my show, and certainly I had never clocked him.) 'I can assure you all that no one is in any danger from these two excellent creatures -'
'Brutus and Nero,' put in Will Lovegrove.
'And indeed they will enhance the show. Besides,' and this was the crucial point, 'I have already put Mr Trimmer to the trouble of writing two or three new scenes.'
That was that, and as if to underline it, there was a clatter and a cry and Mr Trimmer appeared from the darkness of the auditorium, very much out of breath and brandishing a sheaf of papers!
'Most sorry, Mr Carrier! Apologies to one and all! Ladies and gentlemen! Very sorry, I am sure. I have been working half the night on the new scenes, including the special "dog scenes" you requested, Mr Carrier. Here they are,' and he leaped upon the stage and, dropping the manuscript once, scrabbling through it half a dozen times, he extracted a small bundle of paper, Trim thrust it into Mr Carrier's hands, and then looked beamingly, if a little strained, around the company.
'Elenore the Female Pirate, ladies and gentlemen, with a children's ballet and two sagacious dogs. I have given them ample opportunity, Bob - er, Mr Chapman - to demonstrate their mighty powers.' Unwrapping his muffler, he turned to me for the first time and nodded to Brutus and Nero who, I think, were listening with great interest. 'In the first act, they will swim to the pirate boat, run up the pirate flag and show their allegiance to the pirate captain by guarding the helpless heroine and snarling at her when she tries to escape; in the second act, they are discovered sneaking through the jungle and felling the hero, thus assisting the pirate villain in his evil plots; and in the third act, they are poisoned by bad meat and so come to a deservedly bad end!'
The muffler still in his hands, Trim looked eagerly around the company with a smile of satisfaction upon his face, but it was not reciprocated. Certainly not by me, and not by anyone else. Even the bad-tempered Phil Connelly wore a frown.
'You are jesting surely, Trimmer,' cried Will, a frown wrinkling his brow. 'These handsome dogs, Brutus and Nero, snarling and sneaking? Assisting a villain? Poisoned? They could not do it, could they, Bob? Even if you trained them every day for a year. Not these dogs! They are British dogs, through and through. Proud, honourable, dependable, decent dogs, incapable of a mean action.'
The company hummed in appreciation.
'Oh really!' said Trim, laughing. 'Don't be such a clown, Lovegrove! It is but the plot of the drama, and casts no adverse reflection upon the character of the dogs! Indeed, it supposes that they must be well-trained and good canine actors if they are to perform against their natural inclinations and assume villainous roles.'
But this argument fell flat, and a tide of noisy protests from the company rose to meet it! It was not my row, however, and, feeling uncomfortable, the dogs and I tiptoed quietly outside to breathe calmer air. For I dislike arguments, and shouting distresses me very much: I must have heard a barrelful of discord as a child, and even now my stomach tightens and my eyes water when I hear angry voices.
So, with my pipe and a biscuit or two for my canine pals, I stood in the theatre doorway and contemplated the black and greasy wall opposite. The crowd of chattering children and their mamas had grown, of course, but they gave me a wide enough berth when I lit up, and I puffed quietly until a voice at my shoulder said, 'Are they still there, Bob? The boy and the grampus?'
Will took me by surprise and I jumped. I had not given them a fly's thought. But clearly he had.
'I wonder if they're waiting for a second go at old Trim. Picking their moment, when he's hurrying off somewhere with his head in the clouds.'
He frowned and peered through the crowd whilst scratching Nero's ear.
'By the Lord Harry, here's a plan. Would you lend me your noble boys as supporters to go and round up the grampus and, if he's unwilling, fetch a constable to assist? Then we'll haul these two prodigies of nature before poor Trim and see if he isn't the unwitting hero of a terrible awful gagarino!'
Will eyed the boy - 'Keep your peelers on that young shaver, Bob!' - called Brutus and Nero to his heels (sometimes I think they love him more than me) and hurried through the crowd without another word.
I didn't protest, and I had not looked at the boy, nor given him a second thought. And so to spy again this undersized creature, curled like a grub against the grimy wall with his toes, like buds, sticking out of his boots, gave me a little shock. I saw now that his legs were barely covered by his trousers and those had more holes in them than trouser, and it was the same for the coat upon his back which was more tatters than cloth and considerably out at the elbow. His head was bare, his hair trossy and his face - I couldn't see it at first, so deeply buried was it in a pair of grubby hands. But as I drew closer and two weary eyes peered up at me, ah then, I knew who he was, instantly. And it didn't seem at all strange that he should be the boy who had sent me flying into the mud before he flew into the darkness of the railway cutting.
We stared at each other for some moments, then he reached inside his shirt and drew out a packet, tied up with string and held it out. It seemed to me he did so with some little effort, as though it hurt him to move.
'I know you. You're the dog-man from the Aquarium. I've seen you walking with Mr Trimmer. In the street. You could give this to him. He dropped it and I picked it up. And when I went back, he was talking' - he bit his lip and rubbed his eyes hard - 'he was talking to the Nasty Man, so I legged it sharpish. And if the Nasty Man asks, you can tell him from me, I 'aven't got nothing! He can kill me first!'
He spoke quietly, with long waits in between, as if he was not in the habit of speaking and the sound of his own voice took him by surprise. He looked about him as well, his red eyes constantly on the peel, though he gave Trim's packet, now lying in my hands, not a second glance. Then he got up and without another word, but keeping a steadying hand upon the wall, walked away. And that was that.
I watched him to the road and could not help but feel a stab of sympathy for him. Hadn't I been just as he was now? And how much would I have appreciated a kindness from a stranger! I thought he might at least take a sixpence from me (he looked as though it could not do him any harm) so I caught him up. But when I put my hand upon his shoulder, he jumped as if he had been scalded and cried out, 'No you don't, you devil!' and there was such a look of agony and horror upon his face that I was blown back al
so. He bolted across the road, dodging a cart and a pie man and, without looking back this time, plunged into one of the narrow alleyways between a baker's and Strang's bookshop.
Lovegrove, just returning, saw where he went, called after him and followed him a little way, but he was long gone.
And the fat man was also disappeared. The table outside Strang's was empty of customers, and the grampus was nowhere to be seen.
Will scratched his head.
'Where did he go, the fat man? Boy legged it, grampus melted away. Curious strange that, Bob, for if we go by Trim's account, they are a pair, in snacks together, the man and his number two.'
I produced the packet and we both inspected the contents.
'Dash my wig! The Vulture's Bride! And the boy gave you this? Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle - and Trimmer a happy man! But what a strange business, Bob! "The first time I've ever known a tail-buzzer return the nicks!" as dear old One- Eyed Jemmy Lightfinger would say!'
Will was eager to return the packet to its rightful owner and hurried back inside, while I, still with the boy and his strange associate in my mind's eye, ambled with Brutus and Nero up and down the street a little way. It is a busy place, bursting with small shops and stalls, eating places and food- sellers, and shifting crowds always, day and night. Quite typical of a theatre street, in fact. There are many small taverns, some hardly more than a single room, and others, like The Bell and Leper, which is closest to the Pavilion, are rambling buildings with a grand yard, concert room and dark little passages which wind around and about, and through which pass only the unwary or the thief (and occasionally both). The Bell and Leper had been open for business since early morning, and its dark passage was occupied now by little knots of people, mainly ladybirds and their customers and, hovering in the background, just out of sight, their bullies. This passage, or one like it, I thought, was where the boy had probably burrowed, but I had no desire to explore further and risk my purse and my throat. Nothing to be gained by that at all, even though a pretty ladybird was giving me the glad-eye, and inviting me over to be robbed and beaten.
The Newgate Jig Page 4