Like all upper-class British boys, Ronald had been sent to boarding school at age seven. Now he was home on holiday, and Mrs. Hawkins had thought she might introduce him to the pleasures of the variety theatre. It was all wholesome fun these days; the bawdiness and drunkenness of the old music halls had passed, but she still hadn’t told Lady Edwina where they were going this afternoon.
Nannies were in effect the real mothers of children of the peerage and the upper classes, whose parents were too caught up in their social worlds to pay their offspring much attention. Mrs. Hawkins—she had never married, but all nannies carried the title “Mrs.”—felt it her duty to show Ronald the real world outside his family’s London town house in Mayfair and country house in Kent. Imagine, him turning into an upper-class twit like Eddington & Freddington! Not if she had any say in the matter.
And Ronald already had a measure of independence. He wasn’t a baby anymore and was allowed go out alone and play in the park with friends.
The first show had finished; Ronald and Mrs. Hawkins filed out of their seats onto crowded Shaftesbury Avenue. People lined up for the second performance were eagerly asking the departing audience about the show. The buskers, street performers in gaudy costumes, danced and played instruments to entertain those waiting in hopes of a few spare coppers. Mrs. Hawkins kept firm hold of Ronald’s hand. They’d go next to a fish and chips shop—not because she thought Ronald should try commoner’s food, but because she loved a good fish and chips drenched in vinegar.
As they shuffled along with the crowd, a man emerged from the alley behind the theatre. Mrs. Hawkins stopped dead in her tracks.
“Crikey,” she blurted. She froze, wide-eyed, but caught herself an instant later. Ahead, the man crossed Shaftesbury Avenue. Mrs. Hawkins took hold of Ronald’s hand and abruptly turned the other way, glancing occasionally over her shoulder. When the man was out of sight, she turned and walked toward their original destination.
At the fish and chips shop, Mrs. Hawkins seemed very distracted. Ronald, a bright and inquisitive boy, sensed something was wrong, but when he tried to question her, she steered the conversation back to the acts they’d just seen. Undeterred, he kept pressing the matter in the carriage ride back to Mayfair.
“I’ll lay a shilling to a pound it was someone you knew once,” he said, racking his mind to think of a likely candidate. “One of your children from another household?”
With her nerves raw and jumping, Ronald’s precociousness was aggravating in the extreme. Still, Mrs. Hawkins kept her temper in check.
“Yes, Master Ronald, it was someone from my past,” she said, hoping to end the conversation there.
“Why didn’t go up to him and say hello? He’d have liked that.”
In spite of herself, Mrs. Hawkins smiled. Yes, Mr. Layton would have indeed liked that. They’d always been fond of one another; instead of being toffee-nosed, like most employers in her long career, he’d been kind and caring. He was so different in character from all the upper-class people she had known. When her mother was dying up in Liverpool, he’d paid Mrs. Hawkins’s train and hotel fare, so she and her ma could spend her last days together. When Mr. Layton found out she was going to spend her holiday alone in the country house, he treated her to a week at Bournemouth, a place he’d loved as a child.
“It’s too bad,” said Ronald. “I’d have liked to meet one of your friends.”
Mrs. Hawkins didn’t smile at this comment. Because she knew the man would have liked to meet his son too.
It wasn’t right, she thought fiercely. Having told Ronald his father had died in his youth, Lady Edwina and her family had obliterated all traces of the man from his son’s life. Not a single photo remained. Douglas Layton had been a loving husband and wonderful father who had spent time with his son whenever he could, despite his busy career. And yet, once he was convicted and sent to prison, he no longer existed for the Litton family. Lady Edwina had gone abroad with her son for a year, returned when the dust had settled, and proceeded to live a life entirely absent of one Douglas Layton.
Mrs. Hawkins shook her head. Those people had died in an accident. Mr. Layton hadn’t done it on purpose. He was a good and decent man, yet the press had turned him into a murderous beast, whom all of Great Britain and the empire hated. In the face of such scorn, Lord Litton’s embarrassment and humiliation had been unbearable. He had raged at his son-in-law for bringing disgrace on the family. Douglas shouldn’t have taken the job in the first place, he had fumed. Designing a music hall was no work for a gentleman architect.
The next day, at tea in her room at the Mayfair house, Mrs. Hawkins did something she knew was forbidden.
“Ronnie,” she asked. “Do you have any memories of your late father?”
“Barely, Nanny. I kind of remember him reading stories to me.” Ronald spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “Mummy never says a word about him, so I don’t ask.”
Mrs. Hawkins took a long sip of her tea and set the silver cup down on the tray. She watched Ronald gulping down his buttered scone and felt affection well within her.
“Would you like to see what he looked like?” she asked in a low voice.
Ronald stopped chewing, and his eyes widened.
“Why, Nanny, do you have a picture of him?”
Surreptitiously, she nodded for him to follow. In most houses, the nanny’s living quarters were next to the nursery, which ceased to be used when the children went off to school. Now, Mrs. Hawkins had a warm, inviting suite of rooms in which she and Ronald had spent many an hour talking, reading, and enjoying each other’s company. On the fireplace mantel were formal photos of Ronald at different ages: a toddler, a chubby five-year-old in a sailor’s suit, a boy in his school uniform with an unhappy expression.
Ronald watched intently as Mrs. Hawkins took down one of the framed pictures and produced a Kodak snap from the back of its frame.
“I took this of you and your father with my Brownie when you were three,” said Mrs. Hawkins, placing it in the boy’s hands.
He stared for almost thirty seconds before handing it back.
“You and him are standing in a field of poppies behind the old house in Surrey. You loved to run through them.”
“He seems likes a nice chap,” he ventured, striving to keep his voice level. “Were you fond of him?”
“He was a first-rate fellow,” Mrs. Hawkins said. “I see a lot of him in you, Ronnie.”
Flattered, Ronald beamed a big smile at his nanny and asked, “Why don’t you have the snap in its own frame like the others?”
“It’s my special hiding place for a very special picture. You won’t be giving me away now, will you?” She arched an eyebrow, knowing Ronald’s love of secret pacts.
“Of course not, Nanny. It’ll be our secret,” the boy cried enthusiastically.
• • •
For the second afternoon in a row, Ronald had paid Cedric Hardwicke two bob to say he’d been playing with him in Hyde Park. He hadn’t. Instead, he’d stood in a doorway across from the alley that bordered the Queen’s Palace of Varieties.
The theatres in the West End weren’t that far from Hyde Park; it was just a short walk down Piccadilly. Just like the day before, at 2:00 p.m., the same man walked out of the alley and joined the steady flow of people in the street. At 3:00 p.m., he returned, accompanied by a woman in an olive-colored dress. They laughed and chatted away like the best of mates.
After so many years together, Nanny and Ronald could sometimes read each other’s thoughts. When Nanny had shown him the snap of his father, he’d known that in her mind she was saying, “You know what to do.” And he had.
Looking at his father was strange. Until now, he had been a ghost to Ronald. And now he was real. He was tall, which made Ronald happy. Maybe he’d grow up tall too. And he had excellent posture and a bright smile, the kind that made people feel good
. Watching him, Ronald wasn’t scared or nervous, just fascinated and excited, the way a scientist would feel observing a rare species in the wild.
Today, as his father, whom Ronald knew was named Douglas Layton, walked down the alley, Ronald scampered after him across the street, dodging carriages and wagons. At the stage door, his father greeted a man in a three-piece suit on his way out. Then the heavy, green metal door shut behind him and the woman.
Ronald stood at the intersection of alley and street and watched other people come and go from the theatre. These were probably the performers, he decided, but without the exotic costumes they wore onstage, they looked like ordinary people.
Was his father a music hall performer? Ronald wondered abruptly. It was an exciting idea. Perhaps he’d seen him that evening with Nanny. He could have been an acrobat, a tumbler, or one of the trainers of the seals he’d liked so much.
Galvanized, Ronald walked to the front of the Queen’s Palace and scrutinized the bill advertising that night’s acts. The Lancashire Lads, the Kings of Clog Dancing; Jack & Jill, Songbirds of London; Professor Evans & His Pygmies; Sam & the Crazy Gang. There was no Layton listed. Probably because he used a pretend name!
It was late afternoon; he had to be getting home. But as Ronald made his way through the bustle of Piccadilly, he felt like he was floating a finger’s breadth above the pavement. He had a father! The discovery excited everything in him. He’d always been ashamed of his father’s absence, which made him feel inferior among his friends. His mother’s upcoming marriage to Percival Tree, the Earl of Gainsford, would correct the situation, but then, Lord Percival didn’t seem to care much for being a father. And after today’s discovery, everything was different.
Dreams of being backstage, helping his father with his act, filled Ronald’s mind. He couldn’t stop smiling. He’d be the envy of all the boys at school. Their fathers were a bunch of boring dukes, earls, and bankers. His was a music hall performer!
24
“Come in, you dear, dear boy.”
Eddington & Freddington had just finished their turn and were taking off their makeup in the dressing room. It was a shared space; only top-of-the-bill performers like Dan Leno or Marie Lloyd were given a personal dressing room. Not that privacy made much difference. The dressing rooms were a collection of cramped, windowless boxes off the maze of backstage corridors. They’d remained unchanged—and poorly lit—for centuries; only recently had their table mirrors been outlined in small electric light bulbs.
Neville gestured for Layton to come nearer as he removed his stuffed brassiere.
“Frank, darling,” he crooned. “We’re trying out new material for tomorrow night’s show. Tell us what you think.”
Eddington: I just attended the races at Ascot.
Freddington: And how did it go, my dear?
Eddington: I was looking around the paddock when a stable boy threw a saddle on my back.
Freddington: Oh dear! What did you do?
Eddington: What could I do? I came in third.
Cyril and Neville cackled with uproarious laughter. Noel Talbot, the Welsh Tenor, who was changing into his street clothes at the end of the room, was less impressed.
“That one’s as old as the shit on your teeth, you bloody fairy,” he snarled.
“No one asked your opinion, Taffy,” Cyril cut back.
“Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief; Taffy came into my house and stole a side of beef,” sang Neville.
“Stole a song, more like it. Frank, did you know these singers don’t write their songs? They buy them. We write all our own material,” Cyril said proudly.
“Ignore him. Yes, Cyril, I would definitely use it,” Layton said, smiling. He’d come to really like the duo—especially as Cyril was keeping his promise not to touch his bum. Their act was just starting a monthlong engagement at the Queen’s Palace; a West End theatre was a big opportunity for them, and they hoped to land at the top of the bill.
“But really, we didn’t ask you here to test out jokes, Frank. We want to take you for a drink, show our appreciation for those new cloths you did. They’re works of art.”
“Indeed. They give us class, m’boy,” added Cyril, nodding proudly at Neville.
“Class my ass,” said Talbot, stomping out the door.
“Filthy Welshman,” Neville shouted after him. “You sing like a hinge!”
When Cissie had secured Layton the job at the Queen’s, he’d decided that he would become the head artist—this despite the troubles surging around him. He had to rebuild his life. With that in mind, he’d continued to put great thought and care into his backdrops. Cyril and Neville’s had been major efforts: one, a garden in front of Lord Burlington’s Chiswick House; the other, the interior of the Banqueting House in Whitehall by Inigo Jones, complete with a representation of the ceiling by Rubens.
“I’d enjoy that very much,” Layton said, smiling at Neville and Cyril. “I’ll be waiting by the stage door.”
But by the time they were ready to leave, it was after eleven, when most pubs had closed for the night.
“Everything’s shut up. Where we will go?” Layton asked. He sighed; he’d been looking forward to a pint of Guinness.
“Oh, have no fear, my friend. A special, secluded spot we know of is open all hours,” said Neville in a conspiratorial tone. “Follow us.”
They walked down Shaftesbury Avenue to Piccadilly, both deserted now, and turned left on St. James’s. There, they entered a building half a block from Pall Mall, whose entry led to a long, dank hallway still lit by gaslight. At its end stood a metal door, upon which Cyril gave three knocks, a single knock, then three more knocks. They heard the sound of a bolt slamming back, and then the door opened into a surprisingly ornate lobby with paneled walls and a marble floor covered with oriental rugs.
“Welcome to the Abdullah, Frank. It’s got a dangerous Oriental aura we just adore.” Neville spoke as proudly as he would have in showing off his own home.
“To the left is the bar, and down that spiral stair are the Turkish baths, which are quite stimulating,” Cyril said.
“I’ll attest to that. And in more ways than one.” Both Cyril and Neville chortled at this little aside.
Then the trio walked into the bar, a deceptively large room full of round tables. Each had an electric lamp with a red shade, which gave the space an eerie, mysterious feel. Thick cigarette smoke filled the air, along with the scent of incense. Along one wall was a bar; at the opposite end of the room, a four-piece band played a fox-trot to which couples—all men—were dancing.
When Cyril and Neville entered, applause broke out roundly. They acknowledged it enthusiastically, and then all three sat at a booth along the wall. Layton had known from the moment he entered that this was a poof bar; out of respect for the artistes, he pretended not to notice, but he found himself ill at ease. From time to time, the police raided establishments like this one, and he’d met a few fairies at Mulcaster serving time for gross indecency. He didn’t want to end up like Oscar Wilde, who had been sent to Reading Gaol and forced to walk a treadmill drum, which operated a flour grindstone, for sixteen hours a day. Humiliation, then death, had met the great author. Layton would do anything to avoid a similar fate.
A man in ill-fitting evening dress and a red fez cap took their orders. While they talked, a young, rakish-looking man in a scarlet velvet coat and a gold cravat approached the booth.
“Cyril, would your friend care to rumba?” asked the youth, nodding at Layton.
“No, he would not. Go away, Desmond,” Cyril snapped.
“A very naughty boy, Frank,” Neville whispered. “Keep away from that sort.”
“You’re a fine-looking chap, Frank,” Cyril said, patting his hand. “You have to expect that kind of attention here at the Abdullah.”
Layton smiled, amused but not at all shocked.
Between prison and the theatre, he’d seen every type of sodomite there was.
As he, Cyril, and Neville drank into the wee hours, many men came and went, some alone, some with companions. The only women present were men dressed as women—often convincingly. One looked amazingly like Mrs. Keppel, the king’s mistress.
Layton was enjoying himself immensely, and the alcohol gave him a warm, fuzzy feel. It was great to be among friends, laughing, trading jokes, and gossiping.
After three hours, his bladder needed emptying. In the restroom, standing at the long urinal trough, he stared at the plaster wall in front of him. Names and obscene comments covered every inch.
Layton’s urine stopped midstream when he saw, among the crude scrawls, Ted Hardy R.I.H.
• • •
“Say, old chap, maybe you can help me.” Layton leaned forward over the bar and spoke in a hushed voice. “I’ve been away in India on an engineering job. Just came back a week ago, but I used to come here quite a bit. And now I’m trying to look someone up.”
The barman, a skinny man with a protruding Adam’s apple, wiped down a champagne glass and eyed Layton with suspicion. It was midafternoon at the Abdullah, and the place was quiet. Only one other man sat at the end of the bar, nursing his drink.
“Didn’t I see you here last night?” the barman asked.
“Why, yes. You’re most observant. I was sitting over there with my friends.” Layton gestured to the booth he’d shared with Cyril and Neville. “Two rather well-known music hall performers. Brought me as their guest.”
Without speaking, the barman set the glass down and began wiping another. Layton understood his reticence. In London, the police would often send undercover officers to entrap fairies. However, this establishment, according to Neville, paid off the police quite well and had a very influential clientele, both of which ensured that such stings never happened. Tory cabinet ministers, an archbishop, and an officer of the Bank of England were all regulars at the Abdullah.
The Fallen Architect Page 15