Trumpets Sound No More

by Jon Redfern

  “He was successful enough.”

  “He could be kind when he wanted to be, Mr. Dupré. I shall award him that.” Mr. Weston’s voice took on a shade of remorse as he spoke.

  “To business, then, Mr. Weston.” Henry straightened his shoulders as a signal that money and contracts were uppermost between the two men.

  “You wish me to play the prince and the Beast once again.” Weston spoke distractedly as if he were in a dream. “The revival, Beauty and the Beast?”

  “Indeed.”

  Henry watched the actor’s eyes lower. In spite of Mr. Weston’s saturnine mood, Henry presented his winning card. “I can readily offer you an increase in wage, Mr. Weston. For your fine service as the prince in Rachel. Your scenes of pathos have been the centrepiece of the play and the source of much talk in London. When there is talk, as you well know, there are sales.”

  “That is most kind of you, Mr. Dupré.”

  “You are welcome. You deserve it.”

  “And how much, may I ask?”

  “One pound extra a week, with a bonus of six pounds for the panto fortnight performances.”

  The actor silently pondered the offer.

  “Is there anything wrong, sir?” Henry asked.

  Mr. Weston did not answer but instead kept staring at the floor before him. The sum was insufficient, that is what he is thinking, Henry deduced. He, however, steeled his resolve. “I must, of course, confer with Lord Harwood on all these matters. Our coffers are bulging at the moment, but debts must be paid. And a bonus or two is an extra expense.”

  The actor before him hesitated. He rose and was about to pull on his glove when Henry pointed to his hand. “An injury, Mr. Weston?”

  Weston quickly turned his hand then hid it within the folds of his coat. It was as if he were caught in a sudden flash of footlight glare. “A graze only, Mr. Dupré. From the battle procession.”

  The deep tone in Weston’s voice astonished Henry, who now feared the actor would turn down the offer. Henry stood up quickly and added: “May I suggest, then, that I ask Lord Harwood for seven pounds.”

  “Six pounds is quite sufficient, sir,” the actor answered in a dry voice, his eyes turned toward the pale light of the window.

  “Good then,” Henry said, his reaction accompanied by a quick sigh of relief. But he was also confused. Weston was still in an odd state: distracted, fraught with worry. Without any movement, Weston then seemed to awaken from his frozen condition. He blinked, and his staring fell away. He took hold of the contract Henry had placed in his hand, read it and signed it without asking any further questions. Then he put on his glove, his hat, and bowed slightly.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Dupré, I was lost in reverie for a moment. I beg your pardon.”

  The two men shook hands. Weston turned, and as he was walking out the door, a figure in riding clothes rushed in, bumping his shoulder.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, Will,” said a flushed Miss Priscilla Root. Miss Root took her place in the chair, having pulled it closer to the fire, her face heavily rouged. “I shall have tea, Dupré,” she announced and slipped off her right glove.

  Henry was about to call for young Crabb when Miss Root fidgeted. “On second thought, I shall not,” she complained.

  “Have you thought over my offer, Miss Root. Of the role of Beauty for this year’s panto?”

  “I am sorry, Henry. I am sorry.”

  “Can you not see your way to accept?”

  Priscilla Root broke into tears and Henry handed her his handkerchief.

  “I am not myself today. I simply am not, Henry.” Priscilla Root answered him as if she were a prisoner in the dock. “I know you are angry about my late entrance last night, but I am perfectly innocent, Henry. I could not hear the stage manager’s low whistle. I have never once missed a cue or a performance.”

  “Miss Root, lateness for any reason is not a virtue in the theatre, need I remind you.”

  Again, the voice of a protesting victim: “How can you accuse me of negligence? One or two slip-ups. Why, even Mr. Kean was late and very often not word-perfect.” These last words were pounded out, the voice slightly raised.

  “But at least you have admitted to fault, Priscilla. And now I need your decision on the part. Will you take it? As you well know, I admire your talent, but lately I have had grave doubts about your personal habits, especially your visits to that den in Soho. I can tell you, such indulgence can mar your speaking voice. You must take care.”

  “Henry, you intrude too much.” Miss Root rose in a flurry. “I shall not allow you to bully me. Not at all.”

  “We are going nowhere, Miss Root. Kindly think on my offer. I need an answer within the hour.”

  “Henry, I am amazed at you. I have been stalwart and my performances have elicited great applause. You seem deliberately trying to discredit me.”

  “Hardly, Miss Root. On the contrary. I wish only to assure the continuation of my contract with you.”

  Miss Priscilla Root walked in a circle before the hearth. Satisfied that he had set her thinking, Henry watched her with careless interest. He sensed she would agree to terms. She would stall, naturally. Hook him with doubt, then release him, gently, with her famous rolling eyes. The silence in the room continued for a few more seconds before Henry abruptly clapped his hands. “Miss Root, I implore you.”

  Suddenly, without warning, Priscilla Root rushed at him. Her face flushed with erupting fury. She raised up her two fists. Lurching forward, she let out a raspy scream that sounded to Henry like the cry of a desperate child. Henry drew back, but Miss Root swung her fists with such a violent movement that he was forced to raise his right arm in defense. Then, abruptly, the outburst subsided. Miss Root heaved in her chest; she looked up at her raised fists and dropped them to her sides. Henry heard her mutter an agitated “Oh, dear, oh, dear.” Her sped-up breathing gradually returned to normal; her face soon found itself covered in her hands, her mouth proclaiming “Oh, my God” in a sorrowful tone. As a final note, a blush of embarrassment scoured her features.

  “Sometimes, Henry, one is faced with choices,” Miss Root said at last, calmed, collected, her shoulders straight. “Very difficult choices. Often ones which are dark and perilous.” Miss Root sat down again. She gathered herself and said, “I cannot as yet ponder your offer. Though I know you need my answer before nightfall. I do not want to give up my position here. I cannot explain why just at this moment. Oh, dear, oh dear…” Her voice sank. She dropped Henry’s handkerchief to the floor and dabbed her eyes instead with a square of lace slipped out from her sleeve. Then, slowly and with solemn poise, she rose once again. “Excuse me, please, Henry. I shall be in my parlour.”

  With no further word, Miss Root departed. To Henry, there was a sense in the air of smoke and chaos. “What has possessed these people?” he said out loud. To clear his mind, he went into the hall. Here, at least, was relative silence and calm. The eerie shadows of the back stage made him think all of a sudden of Samuel Cake. He placed his hands behind his back and paced, refusing all the while to ponder the man’s death any longer. He forced his imagination to wander over a multitude of possibilities for the panto’s ending. Perhaps, he thought, a fantastic chorus of peacocks, young chorus girls in feathers, dancing as if…but the idea suddenly grew stale. He smacked his palms to clear his thoughts.

  On returning to the stage manager’s chamber, he sat down at the desk. He folded up the contracts. He sighed. A tense moment held him in suspense. Much to his great distress, he then began to weep without hesitation. He gasped at the flow of feeling. What has come over me, he wondered. His fingers turned to ice. He gazed at their trembling. Once again the words finally, finally startled his composure like a crack of sudden thunder. Now his hands were shaking.

  He clasped them. He heard himself say, “Oh, God.”

  In horror, he then realized his hands were held as if they were praying for forgiveness.

  * * *

  Reggie Crabb co
uld not stop thinking about his stomach, no matter how hard he tried. One of the ravens—the one holding the cheroot and wearing the gold links in her shirt—had told him to sit on the sofa and be content with the bit of bitter cheese she had handed him from a plate brought in for Miss Root. Lor’ bless me, he thought, but this skimpy corner of cheese did not fill his ache for the moment.

  The clock chimed five. Miss Root was standing by the sofa, as was a woman in a green hat with hemming pins held in her hand.

  “There you are, milady,” said the woman in green.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Edge,” said Miss Root, her voice hoarse. “It must be perfect, you understand. For private use, you must know.”

  Mrs. Edge stepped back, taking up a pin cushion. She surveyed the fall of the blue silk in the dressing mirror, the folds and the fine puffed sleeves.

  “It shall do, Miss Root. Splendidly so, if I may add.”

  Mrs. Edge smiled. She lifted off the cut of the new dress. Priscilla Root pulled in her arms, shut her eyes. Silk slipped up and over her shoulders. It teased her with its thin whispery sound. A yawn then broke over the actress’s face.

  “Will you come with me, my sweet Crabb?” she cooed to Reggie. Reggie liked it when she asked him, as if he would ever say no.

  He stood at attention with cap in hand. “To your place, in Soho?” he asked.

  “You are too curious, my boy. But yes. For an hour. I need to calm myself.”

  The raven puffed out a cloud of smoke and laughed. “I shall be off, then, sister dear.”

  Shortly thereafter, in raucous Soho Square, Miss Root and Reggie Crabb stepped down from a hackney and walked to the weather-beaten door of Balham and Brothers, Fine Tobaccos. She tapped the brass knocker two hard raps. It seemed that at this hour, the London afternoon was at its noisiest. Soho Square was a village unto itself, market barrels and shops, taverns and stalls and private doors busy with customers and children shouting. In a moment, sooner than he expected, Reggie saw the door of Balham and Brothers slide open. A ghost-like voice from behind enquired as to who was calling at such a cold hour.

  “Rachel.”

  Quick laughter was the response to Miss Root’s greeting. The door flung open, as if on its own; Reggie grinned at the short man who greeted them. To Reggie, this little servant resembled a goblin. “Onward,” whispered Miss Root. The goblin motioned them in and slammed the door; he turned, and as always, chucked Reggie on the chin. When the three moved along at last, Miss Root took hold of Reggie’s hand. Between her and the goblin, Reggie entered a corridor lit by a smutty lantern, its smoke causing the goblin to cough. In turn, the corridor opened onto a large room—like a courtyard—where branching off it were two more halls, one leading into an unventilated antechamber reeking with incense and stale perfume. Reggie could scarcely take in breath. At last, the three came upon a chamber full of cushions and more lanterns, these of a brass kind punctured with patterns out of which burned a lazy light.

  Miss Priscilla Root pulled off her bonnet and pointed to Reggie to sit down. “You remember this venue, my boy?” Miss Root smiled and kicked off her shoes. She lowered herself slowly onto the cushions next to a small glass lamp. “Come, plump my pillow.”

  Reggie climbed over the folds of the divan. He had never felt such a soft bed before. At the theatre, he slept on a hard pallet by the scene docks. Every day he was up at five building the fires in the stage manager’s chamber and in Miss Root’s parlour. Balham and Brothers was a royal palace, carpets over thick floors, windows with lattice.

  Reggie punched the pillow, and Miss Root lay back.

  “Only one this afternoon. And some hot water, if you please.”

  The goblin tapped his nose. His bony hand soon found the inner lining of the actress’s coat, which Miss Root had dropped to the floor. In the pocket he retrieved a pound note.

  “Then at six o’clock, a chaise to the door, prompt. My boy Crabb shall watch over me.”

  Like a sigh, the goblin swept from the room. Miss Root began with the clasps on her bodice, then took out the hair pins by her braid. Reggie took each pin and carefully tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. When the door opened again, the goblin entered, carrying a pipe and a small box. A Hindoo woman in a veil walked beside him, holding a basin of steamy water and a basket of sponges. The man opened the box, took out small pieces of fragrant brown chunks and stuffed them into the pipe. With his free hand, he sheltered a taper. Miss Root cradled the pipe in her palm and inhaled deeply. Steam floated into the curl of perfumed smoke.

  “Oh, Crabb,” she said and tumbled backward onto a cushion. She rolled her famous eyes and laughed. The goblin and the Hindoo disappeared without a footfall. Miss Root took another long draw.

  “How cruel I was. I have wept and wept, Crabb.” Miss Root laughed for a long time, then quieted herself. “Love is a bitter drink, Crabb. Never forget that bit of wisdom.”

  Reggie was transported by the perfumy smoke. He gazed on Miss Root until his eyelids drooped. After a dreamy while, he sat up with a start.

  A tall gentleman, silent, stiff, clothed in smooth fur and black wool, stood before him.

  “Missus, missus,” Reggie cried.

  Miss Root awoke, rubbing her eyes. Her voice turned to ice. “Go, Crabb, to the chair by the door.”

  The tall gentleman stepped aside for Reggie to rise. In the lantern light, Reggie now saw the man’s high cheeks. His oily hair was long, with side curls, and it glistened like hard wax. Around his neck he wore a twisted yellow cravat. Black gloves encased his thin hands; in them was a packet wrapped in brown paper. “Shoo, pup,” he said.

  Reggie dashed from the divan and cowered in a musty corner.

  His eyes never left Miss Root. She sat up and brushed back her hair. She shuffled to her coat and lifted out a purse, a small wrinkled fold of cloth.

  “Crabb, eyes lower,” she said, her voice now stinging like a birch rod.

  The smell of the lamp hovered sour in the red air. By the bed, Crabb cheated and saw the two figures, one tall and frightening, the other white, delicate, fishing into her purse, handing out a folded note. Yet it was not the tall man’s size Crabb worried about; rather it was Miss Root’s desperate struggle, full of bewildered sighs. Standing fast so there would be no cause for alarm, Crabb finally shut his eyes. “I cannot see,” he whispered.

  “Will this do?” asked Miss Root. Her words were spoken without fear.

  “Yes, it has your name.” The oily gentleman spoke in a flat manner.

  “Oh, mercy,” Miss Root said.

  “I have done what you wanted done,” the man then said, his voice lowered to a half whisper. “Done to your wishes. He will not complain any more.”

  “No doubt,” said Miss Root.

  “And this boy?”

  “Mute. And none of your concern.”

  “I was not in mind of any threat from him.”

  “I beg your pardon. What time is it? What o’clock?”

  “Near to six.”

  “I beg you not to come to this room ever again.”

  “A hansom cab is outside for you. Your factotum told me as much.”

  Reggie heard footsteps leave the room, a door close, a sigh from Miss Root. When he turned back to see her, alone and shivering on the divan, he watched Miss Root place the wrapped packet into one of her huge pockets. How curious, Reggie thought, as his legs hurried him across the room toward her. The packet held the same shape as a bunch of pound notes. It folded so easily in her hand—but no, this was not his concern. Miss Root was safe, and that was what mattered.

  “My hairpins? Where are my hairpins?”

  Reggie stepped closer, fully awake, jolted into action.

  “Ah, my poor little fish. Dry your eyes. There, there. Now where are my hairpins? Hurry, hurry, goodly boy.” Reggie wiped his nose. He pulled out each pin, one by one from his waistcoat pocket, to let Miss Root take every thin point in her pale fingers.

  “You must not tell anyone about our vi
sitor, you hear me.”

  “Yes, missus.”

  “Especially my sister. Especially her.”

  Crabb said yes. Yes, most of all. For he knew from that moment on that he, Reggie Crabb, had been granted a secret. He would remain silent to his grave. He would allow his fretful mind to regard the gentleman in the yellow cravat as no more than a dream. Standing, he led Miss Root to the door where the goblin waited, his finger pointed to a distant open door where a hansom cab was waiting.

  * * *

  “Mr. Dupré, sir.”

  “Am I late, Crabb?”

  “Beg pardon, sir. They are waiting.”

  “Right away, then.”

  Young Reggie Crabb put his cap back on. As he stepped forward to hold the door for his master, he looked toward the laughing cave-mouth where the stage manager stood explaining to Mr. Dupré the need for a new brace. From the scowl on his face, the stage manager was not pleased to have young Crabb’s interruption. Dupré held a script in his right hand; he patted his hair and walked briskly toward the door of the scene room. Canvas pillars protruded from the bins. The laughing cave-mouth was but paint and wood. Indeed, to Reggie, the scene room resembled a scrap cupboard full of left-over scenes—columns from Shakespeare, trees from the melodramas, all kinds of castle turrets, cottage thatches, archways, vistas of the sea and mountain passes. Holes from years of use allowed bits of late afternoon light to shine through the canvas backdrops.

  “Go. Lead the way,” Dupré now commanded.

  Young Reggie Crabb dashed down the first two flights from the scene room, down past the realms of the upper stage with its ropes, pulleys, hanging scenery, then further on toward the stage floor and the corridors leading to the offices and rehearsal hall. He thought, but the master must hurry. The gals and chaps are waiting. Especially the young ones, the little fresh ones all wanting to be stagers. Reggie had seen their like before, yearning types, all wanting to be like Miss Root or Mr. Weston.

  “Onward, lad.”

  Reggie Crabb skipped toward the large common Green Room. He pulled open the door. Hartley, the stage-door keeper cried, “At last.” All the others stood and parted a way for Mr. Dupré, who slowed his pace to an amble and ended up at a large table beside the piano lady. The clock struck six. The piano lady curtsied to Dupré, and as he sat, she banged out a loud chord on the tinny pianoforte. Hartley rose to call out the first names. At first, Crabb thought the try-out crowd was like a ragged army—like the supernumeraries he saw every evening in Rachel—the bodies in rows, arms raised, then the voices singing, the feet jumping. Mr. Dupré shouted out orders like a general. Old Hartley scribbled down names, crossed out others. Lor bless me, thought Crabb, but there’s a pretty one, a thin one in a nankeen bonnet. Who was she, pretty girl, with rough hands and blue eyes and a face like a fresh flower? Mr. Dupré clapped his hands. The army lined up, catching its breath, heads forward. Mr. Dupré began his inspection, walking now up and down with Hartley beside him, faces examined, heights measured. Presently, Mr. Dupré stopped in front of the pretty girl in the nankeen bonnet.