On and on the little comic went. Layton’s eyes drifted to the cloth at his back; this was a front cloth, which dropped directly behind the tabs, giving the stagehands time to arrange the set upstage for the next act. Someone had painted a large caricature of Perky, along with shamrocks and musical notes.
“We Irishmen aren’t great song writers,” Perky continued. “We can never get past the first two bars. But we can sing and dance a bit.”
From the gallery high above, a belligerent voice screamed, “I’m Irish, and me brother once wrote a song, you bastard.” The speaker hurled a bag of fish and chips along with his comment, which landed at Perky’s feet. The comic picked up the bag and took a bite of a chip.
“Delicious, but needs a lot more salt and a little more vinegar.” The orchestra struck up a tune, and Perky danced around the stage with admirable skill, eating the fish and chips as he capered about.
For the fourth turn, the tabs parted to reveal a man in a beret and smock next to an easel. The backdrop for Professor Armand, Artist Extraordinaire, was painted to look like a typical Parisian attic garret with a large skylight. Holding a palette, the performer bowed to the audience and proceeded to paint with great rapidity a still life of a bowl of fruit next to a vase of red roses. The orchestra played a soft minuet; the audience sat in silence, transfixed by this artistic feat. Layton thought the painting damn good, especially for less than ten minutes’ worth of work. The man must have been an academically trained painter and could have done a much better cloth than the one behind him.
An all-white cloth came down then, and the footlights turned off. A beam of white light projected onto the cloth from somewhere in the back of the auditorium. A title card appeared on the cloth: THE LATEST WAR PICTURES FROM ASIA. Blurry black-and-white moving images played out a sea battle in the recent Russo-Japanese War. A battleship’s guns blasted away. Between pictures were title cards describing the action. The orchestra played a loud, stirring martial tune to accompany the exciting images.
Layton was amazed. He’d heard of such moving pictures but had never seen them in person. It was an amazing sight, like he was in the midst of a great battle on the deck of a ship. Russian officers on the bridge gave commands to their sailors. Returning shell fire from the Japanese ships crashed into the sea, sending up explosions of water. It was like a photograph had magically sprung to life.
Another title card appeared, announcing, A TRIP THROUGH SWITZERLAND. Taken from the front of a moving locomotive, the film showed views of mountain scenery in the Alps; it ended when the train entered a great tunnel cut through a mountainside. DAMASCUS TO JERUSALEM was the last segment, showing the Holy Land, real Arabs, camels, and an oasis in the desert. For that segment, a mysterious, haunting French horn solo was played.
Layton sat, astounded. He felt as if he’d been lifted out of his body and transported around the world in the blink of an eye. He didn’t want the films to end.
The last turn before the interval, called the bottom of the bill, was the second most important act. Here were Nellie, Kellie, and the Two Gents. Just as Albert Stone had said, Nellie was a saucy little number, a sweet soprano and delightful on her feet. The group performed in front of a garden scene with a great fountain. Both Nellie and Kellie showed a lot of ankle onstage.
Perhaps two minutes into their turn, chaos erupted. Two well-dressed women in the dress circle leapt to their feet and started screaming, “Votes for women!”
Layton blinked, shocked. In prison, he’d heard about suffragettes. But to see them in person! The ushers dragged them from their seats, the audience booing and cursing on all sides. The women continued to bellow at the top of their lungs as they were carted off.
“Shut your gobs, you screaming monkeys,” yelled a man in the gallery.
“A woman’s smaller brain makes her incapable of voting,” a man two rows behind Layton said smugly to his companion.
“What would you do with the vote, you bleedin’ cow?” another man shouted.
“Same as you,” shouted one of the women.
Instead of stopping, Nellie and her troupe kept singing, ignoring the protesters. The crowd admired their determination, and they closed to thunderous applause.
At the interval, the orchestra played, and patrons went to the bathroom or to one of the bars. Alcohol sales were one of the theatre’s primary sources of income. For the stalls, the bar, a magnificent wood-carved edifice with scarlet carpeting and a huge marble fireplace, was behind a glass wall off the front foyer.
While Layton sipped a Glenfiddich, he was surprised to see so many women laughing and drinking in the bar. When he’d designed the Britannia, no respectable woman would have been expected to use the bar. Times had certainly changed while he was in prison. The vote for women! Layton had read in the paper there was a group called United Against the Corset. He smiled at the thought. Edwina would never join them. What decent woman does not wear a corset?
Swirling the golden liquid in his glass, he wondered what else was different in this new world he had rejoined.
“I hope you’re paying close attention to the cloths, Mr. Owen.”
It took Layton a moment too long to realize this comment was addressed to him. He cursed himself mentally; he had to learn to respond when someone addressed him as Owen. Turning, he saw Mrs. Mapes, dressed in a beautiful lavender gown trimmed with white lace. He was so taken by her looks that, at first, he couldn’t reply.
“It’s been very difficult,” he finally stammered. “You book some wonderful acts, Mrs. Mapes, so I’m tempted to look at them, not the cloths.”
This pleased her. She took a sip of her drink and smiled.
“Each turn is a separate production unto itself, Mr. Owen. The trick is to make a balanced bill. Each act has to play its part in building the show to a climax.” Her eyes twinkled. “I have to do that each and every week…for the entire circuit.”
“You do a fine job of it,” Layton said. “I have never enjoyed the music hall as much as I have tonight.”
“Thank you.” She waggled her drink at him and said, “Oh, and it’s called ‘variety theatre’ nowadays. Variety is respectable and meant for families, not like the rough stuff in the old music halls. No drunks and whores allowed.”
“I look forward to the second half.”
“You don’t seem like a theatrical type, Mr. Owen.” Mrs. Mapes held him in her steady gaze; he could see the quick intelligence in her vivid eyes.
“Just a country boy from Dorset,” Layton said easily.
“By way of Eton?” She arched an eyebrow.
Layton laughed nervously. “Grammar school boy, Mrs. Mapes, grammar school boy.”
“Is that where you learned to draw?”
The house lights started blinking; the second half was about to begin. Saved from having to evade the question, Layton smiled, said good night to Mrs. Mapes, and finished his drink. The whiskey tasted magnificent and warming, and he had hoped to order one more before the end of the interval. It was probably a fortunate thing to run into Mrs. Mapes to stop him, for he knew he was playing with fire each time he drank. If he wasn’t careful, it would ignite a craving he couldn’t control, and he’d find himself back at the pub, then passed out in the gutter like in Wragby.
The second half of the show was equally entertaining. A magician named Shang Hi appeared in front of a cloth depicting the Great Wall of China, and a very funny ventriloquist performed with a dummy called the Duke of Idiocy—who looked like the king. Then the Flying Donatellos, including Gino whom he’d seen this morning at band call, took the stage. Three muscular Italian acrobats in white tights used a teeterboard to launch a petite girl into the air; she somersaulted gracefully before landing on their shoulders. Her pink tights showed off her lithe body, and the mouths of the men in the stalls all but watered at the sight. With proper British women dressed in puffy blouses and long skirt
s, the variety theatre was the only acceptable place to see what a woman’s body looked like almost naked.
Great applause greeted the Scottish soprano, Jennie Malone. She was top of the bill—the most important act. Logically, the biggest star would be the very last act, but instead of being the last performer of the night, she was the second to last. It was a time-honored bit of scheduling in the British music halls to follow the star act with a specialty turn, to stop the audience from getting up and leaving during the bill-topper’s performance. This was especially important for the second show, when customers wanted to leave early to catch the last tram by 10:30 p.m.
She wore a dark-blue evening gown and stood before a cloth depicting a manor house drawing room with a huge fireplace roaring with an imaginary fire. Her beautiful voice filled the auditorium, and the usually rowdy occupants of the gallery sat quietly, in awe of her talent. The final turn was the El Dorados, whip-crackers who snapped long bullwhips at objects. Their big trick was snapping increasingly short cigarettes from one another’s lips.
At last, the first show ended, and the orchestra played as the audience filed out. A second show would start at 8:20, so the house had to empty in ten minutes—2,233 out, 2,233 in.
Layton was in high spirits. After watching the show, he was confident that he could paint cloths better than the ones he’d seen, and he looked forward to starting the job.
“Topping show, don’t you think?” said a stout man in evening dress in the row behind his. “Say, didn’t I meet you at Lord Cheltham’s house party in Kent?” He squinted at Layton, knitting his brow.
“No, I don’t know Lord Cheltham. Sorry, old chap,” mumbled Layton. A lightning bolt of panic surged through his body, and he became disoriented, almost losing his balance. He grabbed a seatback to steady himself, then rushed out of the aisle and shoved through the crowd filing out into the street. At the Cat & Hare, Layton downed his third tumbler of Glenfiddich and motioned for the barmaid to fetch a fourth. He had met Stephen Madding at Lord Cheltham’s.
10
“Come on, luv. How ’bouts some more yellow to match me new frock?”
Layton stood in front of the new cloth he was painting for Mrs. Eddington & Mrs. Freddington, Two Upper Crust Girls. The duo weren’t actually women but female impersonators, a very popular type of act. There were also male impersonators, women who dressed and acted convincingly like men; Vesta Tilley was the most famous.
“At the Brixton Empire, they obliged me. Won’t you, you handsome sweetie?” Mrs. Eddington, who was actually Cyril Slough, ran his fingers through Layton’s hair and put his arm around his waist.
Layton squirmed, his stomach clenching; he didn’t want his hair dye to come off on Cyril’s fingers, and he also didn’t like being cuddled by a poof. Thoughts of prison and its sodomites beat at his brain. With an effort, he pushed them back.
“Leave him be, you old tart. Let him paint what he wants. He’s not interested in your tatty frock,” said Mrs. Freddington, or Neville Philpott.
“Thank you, Neville,” said Layton. He continued his work on the cloth, which depicted the entrance hall of Chiswick House. Eddington and Freddington were two dim-witted upper-class matrons, and the largely lower middle-class and working-class audiences loved watching them make fools of themselves. On the stage, inferiors could insult their superiors without fear of repercussions.
Both middle-aged men were absolutely convincing as women. With their makeup, hair, and costumes, they could have gone shopping at Harrods and not raised an eyebrow.
“You bleedin’ cow, mind your business. A little more yellow wouldn’t hurt.”
“And keep your hands off the man!” Neville squawked. “Next, you’ll be travelin’ up his bum.”
“All right, girls, pull in your claws, and get back to your dressing room.” It was Mrs. Mapes, approaching with Elwyn Thomas, the stage manager. Both stepped back to look at the cloth.
“Your scenes are so realistic, Frank,” said Mrs. Mapes. “Really, top drawer. You Dorset lads know how to draw.”
Thomas nodded in agreement, and Layton dipped his head in a gracious nod, feeling the praise warm his insides. “Thank you, Cissie,” he said.
He’d been on the job for more than a month and was doing the cloths for the next week’s turns. In variety theatre, most acts changed weekly, which meant constant designing and painting of backdrops. Sometimes, an old cloth would be reused, but regulars in the audience who could attend two or three times a week would recognize them if they appeared too many times.
From the very first week, he’d found comfort in this fantasy world that revolved around artifice and illusion. People he’d never have associated with in his former life populated the theatre: magicians, acrobats, singers, comics, contortionists, jugglers. They seemed like aliens from another planet. Being backstage with them was completely different from being an architect. In his old job, one had to deal with reality, with the pressure of constructing a building that cost thousands of pounds. Here, everything was make-believe. All that mattered was the unashamed pursuit of delight.
Charlie, the stage doorman, stuck his head in the doorway of the scene shop.
“Mrs. Mapes, them natives are here.”
“Wonderful. Bring them out to the stage, please.” She turned to Layton and smiled. “Frank, I’m giving you a special job. Come with me.”
Onstage, Layton stopped in his tracks. Before him stood five tiny black people wrapped in blankets. He blinked rapidly, realizing they weren’t children but adults. Each was just over four feet in height and barefoot. One carried a spear. A white man in a greatcoat and derby towered over them, and Mrs. Mapes went to him with open arms.
“Professor Evans, how good to see you again. And Mangogo, welcome, sir.”
The professor shook her hand; the black fellow smiled, clacked his teeth, and stamped his spear. Stagehands and acts in rehearsal stopped to watch in fascination.
“Frank, Professor Evans & His Pygmies will be with us for a special one-month engagement. We’ll need two very realistic backcloths.”
“They are hunter-gatherers from Central Africa, so a scene of a rain forest will be appropriate.” The professor had a refined Cambridge accent and a lecturing tone.
“Maybe some lions and rhinos thrown in,” added Mrs. Mapes.
“I’ll go to the library to look up some photos,” Layton said. He couldn’t stop staring at the bony little people. Beneath their blankets, they wore only loincloths. The two women looked like the men but had shriveled, prune-like breasts.
“These people use a toilet, right? They won’t go shitting on me floor?” growled Elwyn.
“Well, that has been a problem,” the professor said. “In the rain forest, they can squat and go wherever they like. But I’ve instructed them on the use of modern toilet facilities, including toilet paper. It took some doing, but they’re jolly good at it now.”
“Elwyn, you show them around the place,” Mrs. Mapes instructed. “They’ll have dressing room six to themselves. Don’t see them sharing a space off the bat,” she added with a laugh.
Elwyn was clearly reluctant but did as he was told. “Let’s go, you bloody savages.”
“Come on, Frank,” Mrs. Mapes said, tossing him a smile. “I’ll stand you a lager at the Admiral Benbow.”
• • •
In the pub, the publican greeted Cissie warmly and gave them their drinks for free. They sat at a table in the corner. The widow Cissie Mapes, Layton had learned, was a powerful woman with a fearsome reputation. She booked the acts for the MacMillan Empire chain, the most prestigious theatre circuit in the United Kingdom. She and she alone decided who would perform, and thus she possessed incredible power. Cissie ran the circuit like a general, ordering people about and severely dressing them down for any infraction. She was particularly harsh about the artistes ad-libbing and extending their allocat
ed time onstage. It was an ironclad rule that the show had to stay on schedule.
Twenty years earlier, music halls had been built and owned by one person. Now, at the beginning of the twentieth century, the new huge variety halls were all owned by syndicates; their investors owned chains of theatres and could put up the half a million pounds required for construction. It was likely, Layton thought, gazing across the table at Cissie, that no other woman in England wielded so much influence in big business. The care of her invalid mother and spinster sister required she be based in her hometown of Nottingham, but Cissie traveled to the Great Empire Theatre of Varieties in London’s West End once a week to see new acts.
This was the third time Layton had shared a drink alone with Cissie. She did most of the talking, telling stories of her years in the theatre—she had started out at sixteen as a magician’s assistant—and gossiping hilariously about the latest acts. Somewhere in her past was a regrettable marriage to a comedian, hence the Mrs. Mapes.
Cissie had a beautiful smile and a charming, high-pitched giggle. Independent, funny, and fierce, the total opposite of an English society lady, she was like no woman Layton had ever met. Cissie didn’t need a man to support her; she took care of herself and was proud of it. She was a hard-nosed businesswoman, and he liked that.
Layton couldn’t help thinking how different Cissie was from his ex-wife. Both were strikingly attractive, and he had loved Edwina to death, but he had to admit that she was like a helpless child. She couldn’t do anything for herself. It was because she had grown up with servants around to do everything, for her entire life. They even made sure her bath temperature was always exactly 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Her mother, the late Lady Elizabeth, raised her the way her mother had done, which meant being totally dependent on and completely subservient to a man. Even when they were married, the housekeeper and cook managed their household, although Edwina always arranged the flowers.
The Fallen Architect Page 6