The Fallen Architect

by Charles Belfoure

  “This is Mrs. Cissie Mapes,” Black said, gesturing vaguely in her direction. “She runs the place. Books the acts for the chain. Best mind her, Owen, or you’ll be for it.”

  “No, Mrs. Mapes,” Layton said quietly and courteously. “I have had no experience with music halls.”

  “Well, you’ll learn quick enough. Nine—I mean eight—quid a week to start, and we’ll see how it goes,” Black said. “Start tomorrow morning at eight. Go downstairs and see Albert Stone in the scene shop. He’ll show you everything.” With that, Black went back to his paperwork.

  Layton picked up the portfolio and made to leave, but his new boss’s voice stilled his motion.

  “Wait. I want you to come to the show tonight. Watch from the front of the house; I’ll have you passed through. Pay close attention to the cloths, not the singers’ tits.”

  Cissie burst out laughing. “Don’t ask the impossible on his first day, Ozzie.”

  • • •

  “The house is filled six nights a week, even Mondays. Frank Matcham, who did the London Coliseum, designed it,” boasted Albert Stone, a genial, weak-chinned man of about fifty. He sounded as if he were bragging about his child’s academic achievements.

  “With standing room, we can fit 2,233 in here. The proscenium opening is thirty-six feet wide, near twenty-eight feet high, with a metal fire curtain.”

  Layton nodded. He knew of Matcham; the greatest music hall architect of them all, he’d done close to a hundred theatres throughout England. His nickname, “Can’t match Matcham,” was absolutely true. While there were other big theatre designers such as W. G. R. Sprague and Bertie Crewe, Matcham was king.

  Looking out from the edge of the stage, Layton took in the breathtaking beauty of the French Renaissance-style auditorium, with its three curving tiers of column-free balconies, which stepped back as they soared up to the roof. At the ends on the side walls were the private boxes, which were framed by richly adorned arches and flanked by magnificent gilt pilasters. Hanging from the domed, mural-painted ceiling was an immense oval crystal chandelier. From where he stood, Layton could see how the tiers of horseshoe-shaped balconies embraced the stage, making for a more intimate connection between performer and audience.

  The irony of it all was that many of Britain’s architects looked down upon the men who specialized in theatres. They felt it a vulgar building type and beneath them to design. But Layton admired their skill, and when he’d been offered the commission for the Britannia Empire, he’d snapped it up regardless of the criticism from his fellow members of the Royal Institute of British Architects. Even his father-in-law, Lord Charles Litton, had objected.

  But Layton hadn’t cared. The music hall represented the joy he’d felt as a child, going to the theatres in Dorchester and Weymouth. Taking that commission was the only time he had retreated back to the working-class roots he’d hidden so well. And it had cost him everything. His eyes locked onto the theatre’s cantilevered first balcony, and his brain instantly conjured up an image of a fifteen-foot section collapsing down on the seats below. He had to look away, his heart in his throat.

  “When are you damn foreigners going to change your music? You’ve been using the same cues for the last fifty years,” shouted an angry voice to the left and below.

  “I a wanna the orchestra to play like they’ve never played before—in tune,” answered a heavily accented Italian voice, followed by a bellowing laugh.

  “Go to hell, you dago twit,” someone shouted.

  “Play the goddamn cues,” called the Italian. “And be sure to speed up tempo when we finish a trick.”

  While Stone and Layton talked, the orchestra had filed into the depressed space in front of the stage. “That’s band call,” Stone said. “Every Monday morning, the acts meet with the musical director and the orchestra. They place their music by the footlights there.” He pointed to the piles of sheet music heaped at the edge of the stage. “That’s Gino, one of the Flying Donatellos, an acrobat act, and that’s Broadchurch, the conductor, in the orchestra pit.”

  A swarthy, broad-shouldered man was jabbing his finger and yelling at Broadchurch. When the conductor ignored him, waving his baton disinterestedly in front of the equally disinterested orchestra, Gino began stamping his feet to the rhythm.

  “All right, you bloody dago, we have it down. Next!” Broadchurch yelled.

  “Bastardo! You give me hard time because I no give you and band beer money to play.”

  “That’s right, you don’t. So shove off, wop,” yelled a trumpet player.

  A pretty girl of about eighteen stepped up to the edge of the stage, a rueful smile on her lips. “We’ll start with ‘You Are My Honey Bee,’ please, Mr. Broadchurch.”

  “That’s Nellie of Nellie, Kellie, and the Two Gents, one of the most popular turns here,” Stone whispered. “She’s a scrumptious little bit, eh? I’d love to slip her a length. A real saucy number onstage, but the opposite off, if you know what I mean. Colder than an iceberg.”

  The orchestra played a fast, bright number, and the girl swayed to the rhythm. She then began to dance around and pulled her skirt up a bit, exposing her ankles. All the orchestra musicians kept their eyes glued to Nellie as they played.

  “Let me show ya how things work around here,” said Stone, though he was clearly reluctant to drag his eyes away from Nellie. He and Layton walked to the rear of the stage, and Stone gestured to the boards below them. “Notice how the floor rises from front to back. That’s called ‘upstage,’ and it’s that way to show the swells in the stalls the dancers’ feet better.”

  Layton already knew what upstage meant, but he remained silent and followed Stone to a room directly behind the backstage wall. The space was huge, with a soaring twenty-five-foot ceiling.

  “This here’s the scene shop. Most theatres have to have their scenery done off-site, but we have our own shop. Makes it damn more convenient, I say.”

  Layton nodded, and Stone continued.

  “That’s a flat, where we draw out and paint the scenery—or ‘cloths,’ as they’re called.”

  A big wooden frame the length of the stage was fixed to the back wall, and attached to it was a stretched canvas cloth. A man was painting what looked like a London street scene; Layton could make out Big Ben in the distance. The man wore a gray smock splattered with a thousand different colors of paint. As he worked, he looked repeatedly to a colored sketch on a small portable by his side.

  “In the old days, we had to erect scaffolding to reach the upper part because the backcloths were so damn tall. But these flats can be lowered through those slots in the floor to the understage, so you can stand and paint.”

  Layton nodded, deeply impressed; he wished he’d thought of such a thing for the Britannia. Stone led him back to the stage, seemingly pleased by his approval.

  “Now, once the cloths are finished, the tops are fastened to those bars up above us and hoisted out of sight, up into what’s called the fly tower. Ours is twenty-nine feet high. The cloths can be raised or lowered from that platform on the sidewall they call the fly floor. The stagehands hoist them by hand with those ropes y’see there and tie them off on the cleats.”

  Far above his head, Layton could see half a dozen cloths, held in place by ropes like sheets hanging from a clothesline.

  “The first thing you’ll be doing is transferring a sketch to the cloth and painting it up,” said Stone, pointing to the artist already at work. “After a while, you can start designin’ ’em yourself. Heard ya were a real bloody Remy-brandt.”

  Layton smiled at this comment. It would be great fun to design these cloths.

  “Do you have digs yet?” Stone asked.

  Layton shook his head. He hadn’t wanted to get a hotel room until he was sure of the job.

  “Roy!” Stone shouted. A boy of around twenty emerged from the storage closet. He w
as tall and thin with a potato-like nose. “Take Owen to Mrs. Hodges. Tell her he needs a room.” To Layton, he added, “Mrs. Hodges used to be a contortionist in a specialty act. Now she owns a house that only lets to theatrical folks. Keeps a clean place, and she’s a damn good cook.”

  “She makes butter scones every day,” said Roy with great enthusiasm. “And only one quid a week rent.”

  9

  Layton had a hard time imagining Mrs. Hodges as a contortionist. These were acrobats whose bodies seemed to be made of India rubber; they could be bent and stretched into incredible positions. There were back benders and front benders, and Layton had seen many perform in the Dorchester Place of Varieties while growing up.

  In contrast, Mrs. Hodges must have weighed three hundred pounds. She boasted that she’d once been a back bender; she could bend over at the waist until she looked like the letter U and even extend her head under her crotch. A great crowd-pleaser, she chortled. As she wheezed up the staircase, she stopped to show him her photo on the wall. He wouldn’t have known it was her. The girl in the picture was skinny as a rail, painted head to toe in silver paint and wearing a turban.

  “My stage name was Alethea. Had good notices in the Music Hall and Theatre Review.” Mrs. Hodges recited proudly: “Alethea, a beautiful and faultlessly developed girl, is a contortionist whose poses never offend modesty or humanity. All she does is graceful and picturesque.”

  They continued up, Layton shaking his head quietly at the ravages of time. He was a little worried she’d lose her balance, fall backward, and roll down the stairs like a boulder, crushing him.

  “Now, Mr. Owen,” Mrs. Hodges gasped over her shoulder. “I like letting rooms to scene painters. They’re a rum bunch; don’t make no trouble and don’t drink.”

  The last part of the sentence jerked Layton’s head up as if it had been pulled by a string. He didn’t know if he could stay sober in Nottingham. There were at least two pubs on every block. Already, on the way to Mrs. Hodges’s, he’d stood Roy a drink as a gesture of friendship—the boy had turned out to be the nephew of Roger’s mate. He just had one pint, but his mouth watered for another.

  “Besides stage craftsmen, my house lets only to first-rate artistes.” Mrs. Hodges spoke with great pride, as though King Edward VII himself roomed there.

  Layton nodded, recognizing the term. Roy had begun to give him a primer on theatre etiquette. Always call the performers artistes, never actors or actresses—those terms were an insult. Always flatter them and kiss their arses, Roy added, for they had fragile, sensitive egos.

  “Here we are,” gasped Mrs. Hodges, pushing open a door. The room was charming. Theatre bills and photos, most of them of Mrs. Hodges in her prime, covered the walls. “You’ll be next door to Spring & Spring, the Champion Acrobatic Barrel Jumpers. They’re just back from an engagement at the Gaiety in Birmingham. If ye hear some thumping around, it’s them trying out a new routine.”

  The room held a bed with an orange-and-blue quilt, an upholstered easy chair in front of the fireplace grate, and a tall window overlooking a garden.

  “Yes,” Layton said softly. “This is very jolly, Mrs. Hodges. This will do fine indeed.”

  She handed him a key and turned to the door, trailing a finger over an old photo of herself. The girl in the photo smiled up at the camera, a saucy gleam in her eye. “Mr. Owen, that review wasn’t quite correct about my modesty. With all the positions I could bend into, I was a favorite of the gentlemen, if you know what I mean.” She cackled and slit her eyes at him slyly. “I’d put a pound to a shilling you’re a bit naughty too.”

  “No, not the least bit.”

  “I believe you… Millions wouldn’t. Come down for a cup of tea after you’ve settled in.” She left.

  Layton set down his suitcase, stretched out on the bed, and rubbed his hands over his face.

  “Owen,” he intoned softly to himself. “My name is Frank Owen. My name is Frank Owen.”

  • • •

  The sidewalks along Merton and Ward Streets throbbed with people, all illuminated beneath the lights of the Grand’s marquee. Men in top hats and evening dress, escorting women in great finery, mixed with working-class men and women in the shabbiest of clothes. Constables stood at the curbs to ensure the crowd was orderly, while beggars and prostitutes worked the perimeter of the throng. Carriage after carriage pulled up to discharge its passengers; “cab glimmers,” little boys who opened carriage doors and helped the ladies out for a few coppers, ran up to them in packs.

  Layton threaded his way through the mob to the gleaming doors. This was probably the only time he’d ever use them, he thought ruefully. Inside, he stood in the entry foyer and looked up. A beautiful railing of bronze metalwork bordered the dramatic circular cutout in the ceiling. The space was sumptuous, with red granite floors and a wide, white marble staircase that swept up to the dress circle, the first balcony level.

  From designing the Britannia, Layton knew that designing a theatre was a class-conscious exercise. While the social classes deigned to mingle on the sidewalk, inside, the strictest of class divisions were maintained. Only those men and women sitting in the best upholstered seats in the house—the stalls at the front of the auditorium and the dress circle—were allowed through the sparkling foyer. The other patrons had their own entrances and exits, designed in such a way that the classes need never meet. Even the toilets and bars were separate.

  The highest balcony was the gallery, and its tickets were the cheapest: one bob to sit on wooden benches. Called “the gods” because the seats were closer to heaven than the stage, it had its own plain staircase for the long climb up.

  Standing next to the staircase, the house manager, Oswald Black, wore white tie and tails and greeted the upper-class patrons with a toothy smile and hearty handshake. When he spotted Layton, he motioned to a uniformed usher, who gestured Layton forward with a white-gloved hand. To his surprise, Layton was led to the expensive stalls at the front of theatre and given a program and an aisle seat in the fifth row. Of course, he thought; as a scenic artist, he needed a close-up view of the backcloths.

  Out of professional habit, Layton craned his neck, trying to take in the complexities of the space. With the house lights on, the plasterwork on the faces of the balconies and boxes exuded a creamy golden glow, which contrasted wonderfully with the royal-blue velvet of the seats. He took in all the details—automatic tip-up seats, bronze light sconces inside the boxes, the beautiful ornamentation of the great proscenium arch framing the matching royal-blue tabs of the main curtain. Matcham was indeed a genius. He could take an immense space and make it into a cozy and intimate world of fun, a welcome escape on a rainy, damp night.

  Rising to take off his coat, Layton looked behind him at the pit. This section of bench seats, located under the balcony, on the other side of the low wooden wall behind the stalls, was already packed to capacity with working-class types and a few toffs in top hats slumming with their inferiors. Their seats were the next cheapest in the house. Although they were on the main level, they were far from the stage and had terrible sight lines.

  At five minutes to six, the orchestra emerged from a passage beneath the stage. Mr. Broadchurch appeared next, in elegant evening dress, and smiled at the people in the stalls. To the left of the proscenium arch, in a square opening in the stage wall, was a white card with a red number corresponding to the numbered acts on the program. First was the overture. The orchestra started the evening with a lively John Philip Sousa march.

  A gentle ripple of applause greeted the end of the piece, and the number board changed from 1 to 2. Then the curtains pulled away, and with a crashing of cymbals, the orchestra broke into a loud, stirring piece. A beautiful white horse galloped onto the stage, ridden by a woman the program described as “Agnes Krembser, Incredible Female Equestrian Juggler.” She was lovely, with flowing brown hair, and wore a red foxhunting habit
with a black top hat. A set of gold hoops looped over her shoulder. She smiled and waved to the crowd, which cheered wildly. Then, letting go of the reins, she began juggling the hoops as the horse galloped in widening circles on the stage. Five hoops flew higher and higher; it was an amazing feat, and even Layton started cheering.

  He was so caught up in the performance that he almost forgot to look at the backcloth. Displayed before him was a country scene, mimicking a foxhunt on a great estate. The art was passable, Layton thought, though he would have put a mansion on the hill, overlooking the hunt.

  Agnes rose to stand upon the horse like a bareback rider in the circus. Without losing a beat, she continued to juggle. The audience went mad. From this close up, Layton could see the intense concentration on her face. Her assistant stood to the side; he passed her bowling pins to juggle, then flaming torches. The audience roared in delight as, sitting forward astride the horse, she juggled the sticks of fire. Finally, she brought the horse to a halt, leapt off, and bowed. The horse lowered his head and bowed too. The tabs closed, and—to the audience’s delight—the horse poked his head through for a final ovation.

  The number board changed to 3, and the tabs pulled back. A new cloth had descended. Out from stage left came Perky O’Shea, the “Irish Jester,” a diminutive comic in a red-and-white-checked suit. “Hello, Nottingham ninnies!”

  “Hello, Perky!” the audience screamed back.

  The comic pointed to a man in the stalls a few seats away from Layton.

  “You, sir, with the flesh-colored hair. Don’t look at the program. Me name’s Perky O’Shea. Oh, the man doesn’t believe I’m Perky O’Shea. If I’m not Perky O’Shea, then I’m havin’ a hell of a good time with his wife.”

  The audience roared with laughter.

  “Speaking of wives, me mate was sitting in a restaurant with his, and there was this bloke, roaring drunk, at a nearby table. He says to his wife, ‘Why do you keep staring at that man? Do you know him?’ ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That’s my ex-husband. He’s been drinking like that since I left him seven years ago.’ Me mate says, ‘That’s amazing. I didn’t think anyone could celebrate that long.’”